


By My Hand

by spittingfeathers



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, F/M, because episode six made me do it, psssst ramsay dies, this is not a fic for people who love him, violence isn't too graphic but just to be on the safe side it's there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-03-31 07:01:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 39,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3968830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spittingfeathers/pseuds/spittingfeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa has no intention of letting Ramsay Bolton last long enough to make it to the marriage bed. They think she's weak and shy and obedient but she's a wolf, and they've forgotten. It's time they remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ShipMaester](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShipMaester/gifts), [eternalsummer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternalsummer/gifts), [Tommyginger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tommyginger/gifts).



They wanted her to take his arm, but she couldn’t. Wouldn’t. She could see the neutral expression of Roose Bolton start to turn sour. She left Theon a few paces back and went to stand with Ramsay beneath the old Weirwood. Her father used to sit beneath this tree and tend to Ice, his sword - now split in two and in the hands of the Lannisters.

 _It will be worth it_ , she thought.

Vows were said and her voice rang clear through the cold air.

Ramsay offered her his arm but she didn’t take it. Instead Sansa turned slowly, her dress dragging in the snow, to face her husband. How foul that word seems now. She gave him a slow, shy smile, stepping just a little closer to him till she could feel the warmth he gave off through all the layers he wore. This boy was not built for the North - the True North. Sansa looked up coyly through her lashes.

His eyes widened in what was surprise and perhaps excitement as she raised her hands and lay them on his cheeks. Her thumbs smoothed over jaw, clean shaven and _wrong_ somehow.

The Bolton men all around them were silent and still, but she paid them no mind. Sansa leant a little closer and she could see a smile break out on his face, her own widening too.

Her left hand trailed to the back of his head while her right meandered down toward his lips. She could feel his breath on her face and his hand fit neatly on her waist… _Don’t touch me_ …

Sansa kept the smile on her face even as she felt Myranda’s hate filled gaze burning into her back. If only looks could kill, Sansa almost laughed at the thought. If such a thing were true there would be very few left alive at Winterfell.

They all thought she was going to kiss him.

 _Never_.

In a move that no one suspected of the gentle High Born Sansa Stark, she gripped his chin and the back of his head and twisted sharply. So quick was her movement that none could move to stop her before it was too late.

She had grown strong in the Eyrie and even stronger on her way to Winterfell. Perhaps Ramsay would have noticed the slight calluses on her hands if he wasn’t so consumed with the expectation of kissing her.

Sansa watched dispassionately as Ramsay lost control of his body, eyes wide with surprise. As he slumped to the floor a quick sleight of hand allowed her to slip a dagger from his belt into the long sleeves of her gown. She watched, a small smile on her face as he lay there completely unable to move. She looked calmly over her shoulder at the gathering and watched as surprise and disbelief was mirrored on each and every face, except one. Lord Bolton didn’t even spare a glance for his son, his eyes, cold and grey tried to freeze her where she stood. Sansa looked back, refused to shrink away.

Long moments passed in silence until Myranda let out a terrible shriek and dove through the crowd to throw herself besides Ramsay’s body. Her hands scratched at his now motionless limbs, clawing at him and dragging his shoulders back to place his head into her lap as he struggled to breathe while she panicked and keened through her tears.

Then, perhaps a little less surprising was the hiss of steel that cut through the air. Swords were drawn as finally the situation sank in. Sansa turned her gaze from the guards to eye Roose Bolton cooly as he gripped the handle of his blade. He was weighing up the risk whether it would be worth it to kill her or not.

Sansa smiled.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Then, so close that a few of the Bolton soldiers looked around worriedly, a wolf howled.

Sansa laughed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now I've handed in my work for this year (can't believe it!) and because the response to the first chapter was amazing I've written the next chapter! 
> 
> Warning for violence, death and blood in this chapter :O
> 
> ***The first chapter has been edited and made slightly longer so I would go back and read it again before reading this update!***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please re-read the first chapter, I've made several changes and its now a little longer too!  
> I'm out most of this weekend but I'll try to get another chapter written soon!

Sansa Stark stood tall and with all the grace of a Queen spoke to the group, her words bracketed by the occasional sob from Myranda and the wheezing choke of Ramsay though it did not detract from the confidence in her words. She had moved to stand farther forward, closer to the gathering than was perhaps wise. Despite being wholly alone and surrounded by those loyal to the Boltons who had strength and armour and swords enough to easily cut her down where she stood, she seemed unruffled.

“Swear fealty to me and I will be merciful,” she told them, looking over the few servants that stood there. “ _Resist_ …” she said the word softly, hanging in the air, no other explanation but it held a promise and even Roose Bolton knew that Starks kept their words. “I hope you won’t have to find out.”

The guard’s swords were still held in their hands but they made no move to come forward and get her.

“No takers?” the group remained silent and still. “Pity.”

Sansa whistled, a high shrill sound that seemed to startle the men into action. Those without swords or means of fighting were put to the back, she could see Lady Walda moved to the centre of the group - she was of course with child, they would not risk her - and then they waited.

Perhaps they expected she had planned something with those who were still loyal to the Starks, but she had been here weeks and not one had yet shown up to rescue her. Apart from her mysterious ‘friend’ who would come if she lit a candle in the broken tower, and she had not lit it yet, there was no one to conspire with except herself. Perhaps that is what made them underestimate her, she thinks, that they would have nothing to fear from a girl, alone and friendless in the place that was once her home, but her home no longer. They had underestimated Sansa Stark, but they would only do so the once.

They did not know it but she had she had been having strange dreams since she had arrived in the Eyrie. Often she spent her dreams in wooded areas, hunting and following trails. She remembers waking with the taste of blood in her mouth, fresh and warm. She remembers the closeness of the pack and running long into the night well into her waking hours. The feeling of family and belonging is something she hasn't felt in a long time and something she clings to during the days that she spends in this familiar place filled with strange people.

She knows they are real -- the wolves. Anything else is impossible.

Behind her, from the concealing shadows of the tree line she felt, more than heard, the wolf emerge. Then it sat, and waited, and watched. She felt a thrill run through her, she had been right! She knew they had been close!

However, oddly it was as though Sansa was in two places at once; she could see her herself, red hair twisted and piled artfully atop her head, back straight and hands held neatly in front of her…and yet, she could still see the group in front, Roose Bolton standing with his men looking at her. Walda looking mildly terrified behind the guards and the handful of maids she'd brought with her all wide eyed and huddling together with the squires and servants loyal to the Boltons that had come out to attend to their Lord.

Lord Bolton looked at her with his cold grey eyes.

_What have you done?_ The look seemed to say.

Back beneath the Weirwood, Myranda sobbed. “No! Ramsay, please!”

Now Roose spared a look for his son. Ramsay had stopped breathing, she could smell it.

Strange that.

So Sansa did not look back at them. Instead she listened to the cries of the girl who tried to scare her as she sobbed over the body of the boy who wanted to ruin her.

_Ruin her_ like he had Theon Greyjoy, who cowered and slipped about the warm walls of Winterfell as though he was nothing more than a ghost or fading memory.

_“My name is Reek”_ he had told her once, eyes directed at the floor and shivering, and she couldn’t help but believe him. There was nothing of the cheerful joking lad Theon Greyjoy had once been, or the confident raiding Ironborn he had tried to be when he had taken Winterfell and burnt her little brothers bodies. All joy and vigour had disappeared, removed by whatever ills Ramsay had done him, and left a hollow shell behind.

“I’ll kill you…” The words were said in a building sob as Myranda looked up from the glazed over eyes of her lover and she stood letting his head drop back to the ground. Her pretty face was twisting into a snarl as she pulled the sword from Ramsay’s belt. “I’ll KILL you!” she shrieked.

Lord Bolton, for once, looked a little surprised but it was not so to Sansa. No one would try to frighten her over someone they didn’t care about. She turned slowly as though in a dream. She was oddly calm as Myranda came toward her, intent on hacking her to bits probably. There would be no way for Sansa to defend herself but to dodge and in this dress quick movement was almost impossible.

Myranda charged, eyes filled with pain and hate and rage.

She swung.

Sansa ducked.

The wolf leapt...

The sword was thrown to the side, slipping out of the girl's grip from surprise and pain as the Wolf forced her to the ground, its jaws clamping down around her shoulder. Myranda only screamed until the wolf’s jaws found her throat, then she only struggled. 

Sansa looked from the wolf to the guards and saw their eyes narrowed, from the back, someone covered a startled cry.

A nod was shared between the guards and they started forward.

Myranda had quickly stilled, the snow around her turned pink, and the wolf looked up at the advancing guard, knowing they would go for it first.

Inside Sansa's heart was pounding and she was sweating beneath her heavy dress. She felt excitement, fear and the need to _protect_. 

The wolf moved to stand beside her, opening its blood stained muzzle and let out a long loud howl that tore through the air. Sansa met Roose Bolton’s eyes and gave him a wolfish grin. She could taste the blood of Myranda on her tongue and feel a sudden energy run through her veins that made her cheeks turn pink and palms turn sweaty--and then she could smell them.

“ _The North Remembers_.”

All around her, a hundred howls rent the air and the pack emerged, snapping, snarling growling, baying for their blood.

And Sansa would let them have it. Every last drop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't stop thinking about this tiny fic (it's going to be tiny I swear!) I've got about two more chapters planned though who knows it may just end up being longer. I'll try not to leave the update too long, I know the end of this chapter was a little bit cruel!


	3. Chapter 3

The fight was quicker than she had expected. Out of the Twenty guards that were there, only two managed to live long enough to gasp out a surrender but they were still gravely injured. Sansa doubted they would last the night even if they did get to a Maester in time.

With a whistle the wolves immediately backed off to attack the guards who remained or encircle the non-fighting group and keep them from escaping. The wolves yapped excitedly and snapped and snarled at the air around the group. Lady Walda looked up at her, eyes wide and terrified, pleading silently to let them go, to not harm them, but Sansa blinked once, twice, and her face remained as still and cold as the wall itself.

Sansa knew that Walda was not at fault personally, but she could not show weakness toward those who had wronged her. For now, she needed her alive and unharmed. The wolves knew this, somehow, and would do nothing more than scare them a little.

Roose Bolton on the other hand, she let them be a little rougher.

He lasted the longest of his guard, managing to kill several wolves and injure a few more, but he himself was not without injuries. Several bites and claw marks littered his hands and arms and face and in places his furs and tunic had grown darker with blood. His sword had been torn from his hand and even with the daggers he had kept on his person he could not stem the overwhelming tide of wolves that attacked him. One after another, biting his legs, arms, throwing themselves at him and snapping at his face as they knocked him to the ground, and once he was down, he was done for.

“Don’t kill him.” Sansa said quietly, and the wolf that had been going for his throat latched onto his shoulder instead and shook its head, teeth digging into the soft flesh at his shoulder, covered only with fine fur and cloth having forgone the chainmail he’d worn at the Red Wedding.

Perhaps he thought weddings were no longer dangerous.

Sansa let the wolves bite and lunge and drag Lord Bolton about the ground, and found his struggles amused her. They would have horrified the old Sansa Stark.

He grunted and growled occasionally through gritted teeth, trying to remain strong even as he felt more wounds forming on his body.

“Are you done yet?” Sansa asked politely when he stilled, chest heaving.

The wolves backed off to sit around him, tongues lolling out the sides of their mouth showing sharp teeth, the fur around their muzzles wet with blood.

Roose Bolton flicked his eyes to hers and glared. He had lost and he knew it.

“We will head back to the castle now.” Sansa smiled. She turned to survey the grounds, the wolf who had first appeared in the clearing stuck close to her. She didn’t feel the same connection with this wolf as she had Lady, though perhaps something like it would grow in time, she had already been dreaming of it after all.

Sansa started forward, back straight and head held high, the way her mother had taught her. She heard whimpers and frightened breathing from those who were surrounded by the wolves and the occasional grunt from Lord Bolton though he must have been trying to contain himself. Her lips twitched in a grim smile.

Behind her she heard a growl and a yelp, she didn’t need to cast her eyes back to know what was happening. She saw it all from the eyes of the wolf beside her. The rest of the pack who had nor been circling her ‘captives’ had decided to be helpful and bring back the bodies of those who had died, though there was a rather grim game of ‘tug-o-war’ going on.

She kept walking until she realised that there was one person who was not following her. She looked back, the wolves stopped and Lord Bolton came to a halt, his leg caught in the jaws of one of the wolves who had been dragging him behind, biting down harder when he tried to free himself.

“Theon?”

He didn’t respond.

He stood there, staring at Ramsay’s body being dragged behind the guards with a lost look on his face, as though he couldn’t quite believe what had happened. The wolves had left him alone strangely enough, but she still wanted him to come with her, not stand about in the cold where he could possibly wander off.

“ _Reek_.”

The boy jerked, startled and his eyes darted around, momentarily terrified before his eyes landed on her. “Come here.” Slowly, and with a little hesitation, he walked forward, only casting one look back at the body of his tormentor. “Go ahead to the castle,” Sansa said, “and tell someone to light a candle in the top window of the broken tower.” When he didn’t move Sansa pursed her lips and ordered, “ _Go_.”

He went.

*****

Theon had walked, and then he had run, until he found the rest of the household, servants and sell swords alike nervously waiting in the courtyard.

The castle had been disturbed by the howling and snapping coming from the Godswood, but it showed how far their loyalties ran when none had come to search for them. They asked him what had happened but he shook his head, wide eyed as though vocalising what had happened would make it real, and told a maid Lady Sansa’s orders. The maid had done as she was bid, but Theon remained in the courtyard, not knowing what to do next.

A small, beaten down part of him recalled that when the ‘wedding’ party arrived it was a sight to see.

Lady Sansa was in the lead still looking as put together as before, but fierce and prouder than many of these people had ever seen her. Perhaps it was the two enormous wolves that padded along beside her that made those around him gasp. Or it could have been the many wolves that poured into Winterfell afterward, dragging bodies through the snow, encircling Lady Walda and her maids, and then, perhaps most surprising of all, was the struggling bleeding body of Lord Roose Bolton himself who finally stopped when Lady Sansa told the wolves to _stay_.

It was clear there had been some sort of fight on the way; a wolf was bleeding, another was limping, and Lord Bolton looked worse than before, cuts and bite marks littered his face and one of his legs was now bent at an unnatural angle.

Again, the gathering was silent until one person amidst the crowd of servants let out a tremulous “ _My Lady_?” and Sansa gave them the same speech about renouncing the Boltons, loyalty and pledging their service to her.

The promise of a Stark back in Winterfell was too much for some and an old lady openly started weeping, muttering praises to the Gods, old and new, in thanks. All who gathered there immediately bent the knee and whispered thanks to their new lady, the gods they kept and the ghosts of Eddard Stark, Lady Catelyn and King Robb.

Then, underneath it all in hushed tones they whispered “ _Queen in the North_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so already it looks like it's going to be more than 4 chapters...damn this ship


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Warning for graphic descriptions of blood, death and violence in this chapter. Ye be warned.*

The courtyard is silent except the quiet weeping that has overtaken Lady Walda and her maids. Perhaps they expect to be next.

“Surely you don’t mean to do it yourself, My Lady?” One of the stable hands asks nervously.

Sansa remains cooly focused on the body of Ramsay in front of her. _It’s a shame he’s already dead._ “As Lord of Winterfell my father beheaded traitors and deserters. As Lady of Winterfell I will do the same.” The sword cuts through his neck easily, his head hits the floor with a thud and the blood—it is everywhere.

Sansa mounts Ramsay’s head herself, jams it onto the spike with a twisted sort of satisfaction. His face frozen in surprise; the moment his _shy, weak_ , northern bride had managed to _break him_ before he could break her, will remain on his stiffened face till the crows come to peck away at what is left of him. Sansa wipes her bloody hands and sword on Ramsay’s cloak. Surprisingly her dress is almost without stains - a few on the hem and blood spatters here and there, but nothing that cannot be undone.

Sansa orders his body burnt and ashes tossed to the wind, later tonight perhaps. A bonfire to celebrate her return sounds rather lovely — a good way to send a message. News travels faster than the Stranger these days.

With the heel of her boot she pushes the body away, it slips in the snow, limbs stiff, blood still running from the neck. When she nods at them, the stable hands obediently rush forward and drag the body a little ways off, leaving a trail of blood that turns the snow pink like the colours of House Bolton.

“Now him.”

Sansa does her best to look aloof as Roose Bolton is dragged forward and shoved down hard against the block by two guards and held still. The entirety of the castle is now here to see justice done, and Sansa looks down at Lord Bolton, just as he looks up, and somehow he still manages to keep the defiant look on his face.

Sansa presses the tip of the sword into the ground in front of her, hands crossed over the pommel and begins to recite the words that rang clearly through the air.

“For the murder of my brother and King in the North, Robb Stark. For seeking a seat that was never yours. For the continued practice of Flaying and torture…I Sansa of House Stark, daughter of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully, Queen of the North, do sentence you to die.”

She raises the sword high above her head and prepares to make the swing…but then, he’s still looking at her, expecting the blow, and there is some triumph in his eyes that makes her angry.

_The death is too quick._

_Give him what he deserves._

_Your family deserves justice._

Slowly, Sansa lowers the sword and he rushes to conceal the confusion on his face. The confusion is clearer on the faces of those around her and she beckons a guard forward to hand him the sword.

“Do you wish for me to do it, My La—Your Grace?” he asks quietly.

“No.” Sansa says and waves her hand dismissively. “Lord Bolton will not die a traitors death because a traitors death is far too good for him…I wish for a bow and arrows. Fetch them for me.”

The bow and arrows are brought to her and Sansa tests the string. She smiles becomingly at Lord Bolton and knocks her first arrow. “It took half a dozen arrows to slow down my brother, we shall see how many you can take.”

There is panic on his face now as he is dragged back to sit on his heels, knees pressed uncomfortably into the frozen ground, before he is hauled up and held in place by two stony faced guards.

A sword is quick, arrows are slow — especially if they do not hit anything vital. Sansa pulls back the string and touches her cheek. She aims for his heart, and had she kept it steady he would have been dead.

He doesn't die.

At the last possible moment Sansa lets her left arm waver as she releases the string - the arrow embeds itself deep in his shoulder, the point emerging the other side. His low gasp of pain cannot be concealed.

“Forgive my aim, I am afraid I am not so experienced with such a weapon so I may miss…” the second arrow is knocked, this time it strikes his thigh and he wavers, but does not fall.

Sweat is beading on his forehead and Sansa remembers how Joffrey had taken great delight in telling her how Robb had been riddled with arrows before he was stabbed through the heart…they had sewn Greywind’s head onto Robbs shoulders and she lets her arm drop this time, she is sure her face is furious but she cannot help but let it show now.

In their quest for power these men have taken away everything she ever had - her father and mother, her brothers and sisters, Septa Mordane and Lady. They had taken the North and tried to take her too.

Roose Bolton howls like a gelded man as the third arrow meets its mark between his legs. He falls to his knees, gasping and sweating and his eyes roll wildly around in their sockets from the pain. Sansa hands the bow and remaining arrows to a shocked, and rather pale, guard before she sweeps over to Bolton and grasps his chin, wrenching his head back to look into his face.

Sansa's expression is cool once more, but she speaks courteously and it is far more terrifying than any war cry or shout any of the guards here have heard before.

They all decide unanimously to remain loyal to the Northern Queen, for none of them wish the fate of Ramsay or Roose Bolton upon themselves.

“Robb took twice as many arrows before he even broke a sweat…but I suppose he was rather preoccupied, his wife and unborn child had just been murdered in front of him after all.” Sansa’s eyes flicker over to Lady Walda who looks close to fainting and sees Bolton’s eyes drag there almost involuntarily. “You will know this pain too.” she tells him quietly, and then speaks again a little louder. “No lands in the North will ever be held by those who go by the Bolton name— _ever_! Do you know why? Because there will _be no Boltons_ …just as there will be no _Freys_.” The panic in his face is enough, Sansa thinks, but she will say her piece. “You stood there and watched as they slit my mothers throat and mutilated my brother’s body. You sought to play the game, but you lost, and it has cost you dearly.” Sansa speaks no louder than a whisper yet all whom surround them can hear her words. It is though they are spellbound, forced to watch and cannot draw their eyes away even if they have no wish to see it. “May your mind have no peace…your soul no rest…and you be forever cursed to all the seven hells for what you have done.”

Ramsay’s knife slips from the folds of her sleeve into her hand.

“ _My regards_ , Lord Bolton.”

Sansa drives the knife into his chest and watches his cold grey eyes glaze over.

Winterfell is hers. As it should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I enjoyed writing this chapter far more than i probably should, but don't worry, though Sansa is fierce now, she's still a lady beneath all that and she's still got her softer side! The repercussions of what she's done so far will catch up with her in the next chapter...
> 
> I love how this was, again, meant to be just a one-shot...what's that. it's now five chapters and still growing? damn.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath...

All weapons, clothes and valuables had been stripped from the bodies and taken inside for later. They cannot afford waste in Winter. Swords and warm cloaks are especially vital, because who knows how long the cold will last? They had been stored in a corner of the Great Hall ready to be sorted in the morning where Sansa would ‘hold court’ at the back of the hall. She looked every bit a queen though she was missing a crown.

Roose and Ramsay’s spiked heads were mounted pride of place above the main gates so all who came to Winterfell would see what happened to those who betrayed the Starks. She does not behead Myranda, there is, in truth, very little of her left.

The bodies of those who had died today, some headless, some mauled were piled up in the centre of the courtyard atop a pyre. Sansa was the first one to set it alight, handing off the torch to a rather bewildered Brienne who lit another corner and passed it on. Though it was rather grim, it was also a strong warning to those who thought a woman too weak for ruling. Not that many would _now_.

The Lady Knight had arrived at the gates and was stunned at the heads of Roose and Ramsay; they had intended to go for stealth but that was neither hers nor Podrick’s strong point, and worried for her safety, charged in only to find Sansa being obeyed by servants, guards and strangest of all _wolves_ seeming quite in control and unharmed. Sansa had turned calmly to Brienne and Podrick, atop their struggling horses (the wolves seemed interested in the beasts and went to investigate), and smiled. “I am in need of a Queens guard and sworn shield, Lady Brienne, and if I am correct about your wish to protect me, I would quite like it to be you.”

Brienne and Podrick both dismounted, feeling as though they’d taken a heavy blow to the backs of their heads. They asked garbled questions about the Boltons, _how she did it, was she alrigh_ t…and all through it Sansa just smiled. “I did it myself,” their stunned expressions were most amusing, “…though I did have some help.” The wolves around her barked and wagged their tails, acting like enormous domesticated dogs rather than the wild wolves they were.

“My sword is yours, My Lady” Brienne says and Sansa’s eyes are drawn to the weapon - it has a peculiar sheen that seems strangely familiar to her…

“As is mine,” Podrick says afterward, they both sink down onto one knee and look up at her.

A servant walks past, one who Sansa remembers slipping her a little extra food, and bows neatly “Your Grace…”

Sansa almost laughs, a more obvious hint she could not have given herself as the man leads the horses away to be stabled.

Her new guards hastily correct themselves and Sansa smiles lightly and bids them rise. Brienne and Podrick take their places one side, her wolf sticks closely to her other. Besides those that watch Lady Walda and her maids the rest of the pack has disappeared, moving about Winterfell or slipping off out through the walls to keep watch while Sansa watches the pyre burn. She feels so much safer now. She has her guards, her wolves and she even has Ramsay’s dagger, now safely in a sheathe at her hip as a token she intends to keep.

She looks into the flames as they dance and lick at the wood and pale limbs slowly darken as the fire eats through flesh and bone. How long she stands there, hours, minutes, she doesn’t know, only that she now finally begins to feel the cold that makes Lady Walda and her maids shiver in their wolf-enforced huddle to her right.

They have stopped crying, but are by no means silent. Shivering, teeth chattering, sniffling and whimpering. Occasionally they will look at her, but quickly look away again, two of the girls looking no older than twelve or thirteen are holding hands in a white knuckled grip.

Throughout the burning the servants bring out the Bolton flags that had been placed about the castle and Sansa ordered them to be thrown on top of the pyre - which they did with no small amount of joy. Sansa of course did not stay to watch their bodies turn to ash because they did not deserve her vigil, and she had other things to deal with.

She makes her way to the Great Hall, guards and wolves and servants who did not remain to keep watch over the pyre, and seated herself in what was once her father’s chair. The tables had been moved so it resembled a throne room and as her wolf barked once, Lady Walda and her maids were herded forward.

They wait, shuffling their feet, their terrified eyes dart around the hall and breathing quickens. Sansa communicates what she wants to her wolf, she can feel their connection burning in the back of her mind, and the wolf directs the rest of the pack to do as she bids.

The maids are easily separated from their lady - and immediately begin howling and begging and pleading for mercy, that they will serve her truly and always…

Sansa looks them over, and when their pleas have stopped, she speaks and her voice carries all the way to the doors at the other end of the hall. “Should you pledge your service to me, for now and always, to remain loyal to those of House Stark…you may remain here in WInterfell.” She is immediately besieged with thanks, pledges of service and relieved tears. “You may ask for duties from Fris.” The girls curtsey and cry and hurry out of the room, jerking away from the wolves who remained if they got too close. _Fris will sort them out,_ Sansa thinks. The old woman had been baffled when Sansa had named her head of her household - she knew the castle best as it was now and had brought her news of Brienne and Podrick (though she hadn’t known at the time it was they who wished to help her). She could have been killed had the Bolton’s found out her loyalties.

Now that just left Lady Walda.

Sansa stands and she sees Walda flinch. Sansa wonders if Roose or Ramsay had hurt her…but perhaps not, the girl had cried when Roose had been knocked to the ground by the wolves. But she is a girl and cannot be truly blamed for the actions of her house or the husband she probably didn’t want to marry in the first place.

Sansa goes to speak but Walda gets there first.

“—If you’re going to kill me make it quick.” The girl, because she is young, seventeen at most, is trying to be brave though her hands are shaking, pressed protectively over her belly.

She’s only two years younger than Sansa and already with child. Perhaps that would have been her already if Joffrey had turned out true born but then perhaps she would have been happy with him - if he was truly Robert’s son he might not have been such a monster. “Cut off my head…just not the wolves. _Please_.”

Sansa sees the servants who have remained look impassively on. Do they truly expect her to kill this girl? Kill the unborn babe too?

“I am no _Lannister_.” She says quietly, though everyone can hear the anger in her tone. “I am am no _Bolton_. I am no _Frey_.” Walda meets her eyes and Sansa steps down the few steps to reach the main floor of the hall. “I am a _Stark_. I do not harm innocents or those who were only involved by circumstance. I doubt you had much say in who you wished to marry and to bear him a child was your duty even if not your wish.”

All bravado falls from her as though it was a discarded cloak and the servants begin a low mutter around the room. “I—I don’t understand. You said—“

“I am aware of what I said to Roose Bolton." Sansa cuts in. "Perhaps he believed that I would kill you both? That was my aim, to make him _believe_ that all he had worked for had amounted to nothing. That Ramsay and your child would not live to build upon the Bolton legacy." There was more than one confused face in the room. "Though I spoke the truth then too. There will be no Bolton’s or Freys because none alive will go by those names. Should they wish to live they will take another name, Rivers or Snow or Waters, and swear their allegiance to me.” Sansa sees her eyes start to gain a hopeful look. “Your child will be a bastard, a _Rivers_. He or she will own no lands, hold no titles or pledge loyalty to anyone other than the Starks in the North.”

“Yes,” Walda breathes, tears now coming to her eyes and she begins to smile, “Yes, please, Your Grace…”

“You will also take the Rivers name. You will cast off any lingering loyalties you feel to either of your houses and pledge yourself to me and the North. You will not be able to leave Winterfell, but you may keep your child.”

Walda can no longer contain herself and her tears spill over her cheeks. “Thank you, thank you…”

Sansa was now in the role of Queen and her eyes narrow in warning. “However…any move otherwise, to attack or harm me and mine, now or in the future, and you will die.”

“I won’t—I wont! My allegiance is yours, my Queen, please—”

“That is good then.” Sansa says. “You will live much simpler lives than you may be accustomed to but Winter is coming and we will need everything if we wish to survive it.”

*****

A bath of hot water is brought to Sansa’s room and the maids help remove her gown, pour scented oils into the bath and take away her dress to be cleaned. She declines their help in washing, preferring to do it herself this time and remains collected until food is brought up and left on the side table for later.

Adrenaline has been coursing through her veins since she left for the Godswood, but now she begins to feel her hands shake in the aftermath, her whole body trembles and she feels cold despite the warm water.

She killed today.

Despite all her bravado, she’s never killed someone before.

_Liar_.

_Mycah and Father were accidents!_

_They still died because of you…_

If only she could go back--but she can’t. Sansa is now Queen and she must be strong for not only herself but her people too.

Sansa finishes washing and gets out of the bath, shaking and wipes herself down, dressing in a nightgown the maids have left for her and crawls beneath the furs of her bed where her wolf has made itself comfortable. Sansa shivers and shakes until her wolf crawls closer and presses its back against her side. The comfort it brings is overwhelming and she eventually falls into an exhausted sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is twice as long as usual (I rewrote this like three times!) Thanks again for all the comments, you make my day with each one :D


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stuff it, this is going to be a full fic. One-shot be damned.

In the weeks that followed Sansa Stark’s defeat of the Bolton’s, there was hope, despite the worrying news from beyond the wall and Sansa had slipped into her role of Queen as though she had been made for it. The crown, however, is something she will have to get used to.

It is cold and sits heavy on her brow; it is newly forged and a little dull, but beautiful all the same. The steel had been made into several thin chords with flat leaves and tiny winter roses that stuck outward while the band lay smooth against her brow.

The Blacksmith also pulled out a clasp for her cloak in the shape of a wolf and a stunning hairclip that again, had wolves etched into the surface. Though simple, they were beautiful, dainty and something Sansa would have loved to wear normally but…perhaps not right now. Not when she was still awaiting several Northern Lords to arrive. The broach and clip she could wear but the crown…she needed to look fierce, like the Northern Kings of Old.

The Blacksmith didn’t seem to mind when she sketched out another idea and he got to making it straight away.

When she went back to check it some days later Sansa had found this much more appropriate. It was made with the steel of Roose Bolton’s sword after all.

*****

Sansa sat in her father’s solar, sorting through letters and accounts of Winterfell’s stores while her wolf, newly named Ice, lazed contentedly in front of the strong fire that burns in the hearth. With the glass gardens now planted they should be able to sustain themselves for a few years at least - Petyr had given Winterfell a substantial amount of provisions from the Vale as part of her ‘wedding gift’. Sansa wonders what he’s doing now, heading back from the capital no doubt toward the Vale and intending to gather the Lords there to ‘oust’ the Boltons. Had all his plans gone the way he wanted them to Sansa would be married to Ramsay and desperate for rescue. He would be seen as a hero and perhaps think that she would be so grateful…Sansa lets out a quiet snort at the idea. Sansa was grateful that she had been able to avenge her mother and brother and take back her home, but none of that was in Petyr’s plans - and certainly not with Sansa managing it on her own.

Sansa wonders what he will do when he finds out she is already Queen in the North without him…

A knock sounds and Sansa calls for them to enter. Podrick appears carrying a heavy wooden chest behind Fris, the elderly lady who had told her about her ‘friends’.

“Your Grace.” Fris says and gives a little bow, guesturing for Podrick to bring the chest closer.

“What is it?” Sansa asks curiously as she stands and comes toward them.

Fris gives her a sad smile and opens the lid of the chest while Podrick watches her expression.

Sansa recognises the cloth immediately; hardy, coloured a deep grey with layer upon layer of thick stitching that she knows will form the head of a snarling Direwolf. Perhaps these are the only two remaining flags of the Starks in all of Winterfell.

“I couldn’t get them all, Your Grace, the rest were burned…” Fris says apologetically but Sansa merely shakes her head, unable to speak and she notices Podrick look away to focus on one of the tapestries in the corner.

“Thank you.” Sansa says lowly, fighting back tears; she can’t allow herself to cry just yet. “I’ll expect they’ll need mending.”

“If you would allow me, Your Grace, I would be honoured to do it.”

Sansa looks back at the desk and all the different tasks that need her attention. She wishes she could sit and while away an afternoon or perhaps even a week repairing and embroidering the flags but there is too much for her to do and as Queen she cannot just sit idly by. Sansa nods.

“When you are done, inform Podrick and he will put them up.” If either of them notice her voice wavering they don’t say.

“Yes, Your Grace,” they reply. Fris smiles and thanks her and Podrick bows and they head toward the door. Sansa glimpses Brienne’s armoured silhouette standing outside before the door closes and she is alone once more.

There is no one there to see how she sinks down into her chair and buries her face in her hands.

*****

“If the Others breach the wall, where do you think they will reach first?” Brienne was speechless but Sansa was firm. “I will learn how to wield and sword Lady Brienne, don’t make me order you.” Brienne agreed though was at first reluctant to attempt to harm the Queen.

“How will I learn if you are continually weakening your blows and slowing your movements!”

Again, Brienne did as she was bid, and though Sansa did often come away with bruises and bumps and cuts, she was satisfied that she was learning and Brienne’s idea of Her Grace was taking several sharp turns.

While travelling Podrick had explained to Brienne what Sansa had been like when they were at Kings Landing and some of how she had been treated by the Lannisters. Based on this, when Brienne had met Lady Sansa and first offered her services, she had thought the girl under the spell of Littlefinger and his manipulations, soft and gentile and needing protection. Now it was clear they had been wrong. Sansa Stark, Queen in the North was made of much stronger stuff. The Queen was determined, fair and perhaps the most terrifying young Lady, Brienne had ever encountered.

Podrick wasn’t so perturbed having seen small glimpses of the Lady she’d become when they were at Kings Landing. Small acts of defiance hidden behind a mask of politeness that meant her words went right over the heads of those she said them to.

Brienne couldn’t help but feel little bursts of pride when in her presence, seeing how she acted with the small folk and giving out orders for the continued rebuilding of Winterfell. Her steely spine was often evidenced when she met with the Northern Lords who came to bend the knee. They had flocked to her banner when it got out that there was a Stark back in Winterfell all rather hopefully bringing their sons and nephews and brothers along. Marriage had only been broached once however…

_“Your Grace?”_

_It seemed that the temperature had dropped several degrees suddenly as the Queen tilted her head to the side her sharp icy crown glinting in the light from the torches. The wolf who sat beside her made a low grumbling sound in its chest and the Lord standing below her, who seemed so confident and cocksure when he had arrived, now seemed to crumple under The Queen’s penetrating gaze._

_“Do you think me incapable, My Lord?” she asked lowly and there was an audible intake of breath from the rest of the banner men and guards at the back of the hall; some had arrived to pledge their loyalty while others had stayed to serve their Queen._

_“Of course not, Your Grace—“ the man looked alarmed._

_The Queen’s expression was curious. “Then I wonder why you would suggest such a thing? Surely you must think it so if you believe I need a husband to better fulfil my duties as Queen?” Sansa rose from her seat and took two measured steps toward the edge of the dais. “Winter Town continues to fill with small folk and I am preparing us all for a long winter. I am aware of the total of our stores and with the Glass Gardens now returned to their working state we are now able to make use of them to add to said stores.” She took another step. “I also have excellent advisors who are willing to counsel me well and not soften the truth. I appreciate bluntness you understand…it is rather odd don’t you think that they have not mentioned once that I need to marry? Why do you propose it now?”_

_“For an alliance?” the Lord said hesitantly, quickly realising that there was more than one wolf in the room—their eyes all fixed on him._

_Sansa raised a brow and stood, making the guards about the hall shift uneasily wondering whether they should arrest the Lord or let the wolves get there if The Queen wished it…_

_“An alliance that should be mine by right? The Bolton’s may have needed marriage to bring allies to their side but I do not. I am a Stark - a true born heir of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully, Queen in the North. I have avenged my mother and brother when others could not. If I have done all this myself why would you believe that I wish to be married?” The Lord stuttered out his apologies and sweat seemed to build on his forehead. “I have had enough of weddings…as I’m sure you can imagine.”_

_“Of course my Queen, excuse me, I did not mean—“_

_“I will marry, however.” Sansa spoke over the stuttering Lord and the temperature seemed to return to normal, her gaze now warmer. “Yes, eventually. But let it be known that it will be to a man of my own choosing and when I wish to be wed. Not before.”_

*****

Though protected from the winds in his own tent, King Stannis still wore every layer available, simply because the tent was scarcely warmer inside than it was out. The snow storm had come in suddenly and set all his men to shivering and bemoaning the cold when they thought he couldn’t hear. Did they not think he was cold too? Did they not think that his toes were freezing in his boots and his hands numb of all feeling? He would be glad to get out of this torturous cold as much as they would, yet he wished they would not stamp about and whinge about it as though he could not feel it himself! Luckily it looked as though it would leave just as quickly and they should be able to continue on their route tomorrow. The sooner they got to Winterfell the better and then they could rest up in the warm walls of the castle and get out of this cursed chill.

A sharp gust of wind ran through the tent as someone entered - Davos and their scout whom they’d sent ahead to gather information a few days prior.

One look from Davos confirmed the news was not as he’d like.

“Report.” he said sharply. Perhaps the Boltons had managed to rally more forces than they had first anticipated, new tactics, traps…he could think of a thousand things that could go wrong for him and his men. This territory was not their own and they were already weary of the cold.

The scout jerked sharply, his hands clenched into fists as he tried to stop himself from shaking too much. There was snow in his hair and beard and brows, making him look a hundred years older than his actual twenty years.

Stannis could not have predicted the news their scout had brought however. “The Stark banners are flying, Your Grace.”

Stannis’ hand paused over the wooden figures placed over his map. “What?”

The scout seemed nervous but excited to share the news. “They say the Bolton’s are dead—their heads have been spiked and set above the gates of Winterfell, Ramsay and Roose and a handful of their guards, I’ve seen it myself! They say…” The young man trailed off, suddenly nervous, watching Stannis warily, he could see the man drag a hand underneath his nose from the corner of his eye.

“They say what?” Stannis said lowly. Hesitation meant bad news.

“They say that it was _The Queen_ that did it.”

Stannis ground his teeth. “And who have the Northerners proclaimed their ruler this time?” He bit out, removing the Bolton figurines. He had no stark figures. That would have to change.

“Sansa Stark, Your Grace.”

It _was_ good the girl had been found and returned home, however, becoming Queen was not in Stannis’ plans for her. He would have seated her as Warden after he had taken Winterfell from The Boltons and she would have been grateful, pledging her loyalty and that of the Northern Lords to his cause who would then march South with him and take the Iron Throne. He had hoped it wouldn’t be this again. Another pretender to deal with, seeking to take what wasn’t rightfully theirs. “She will bend the knee.” Stannis said eventually, his eyes cutting to Davos who hadn’t said a word so far. “She won’t risk the lives of her Banner men so soon after returning home…the girl will see sense.”

“Your Grace, there was something else.”

When the scout didn’t move to leave, but instead looked nervously at Davos and then back to him Stannis felt himself grow irritated.

“What, man, spit it out!”

“They say that _she_ beheaded the Boltons, that she has an army of wolves at her back, more than a hundred strong and—“ The scout seemed about to faint from terror though whether that was because of him or what he had heard and seen Stannis couldn’t quite tell.

“Enough.” He barked and the man’s mouth snapped closed with a audible click of teeth. “Fanciful tales.” Stannis scoffed, “Made up by the small folk to keep themselves amused no doubt. They will laugh themselves to death thinking of us being taken in by such nonsense. I will not have such rumours spread and believed, do you hear me?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” The scout nodded.

“You may go.”

When the scout left Stannis looked down at the map and let out a harsh breath through his nose. Davos approached his side and replaced a Bolton flayed man with a Stark Direwolf onto the map.

“What do we do, Your Grace?” Stannis ground his teeth and narrowed his eyes at the map, his resolve strengthening.

“What we always intended to do. _We go forward_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the Bolton's don't die and something happens to Stannis and Shireen (and anything worse happens to Sansa) I swear I will flip so many tables...


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Queen's work is never done.

The maids had been terrified of her at first, but it wasn’t hard to win them over. In the comfort of her chambers she could be kinder, softer, and more of Lady Sansa was allowed to shine through.

When Sansa had allowed them to assist with dressing her, they had gasped at the silvery scars on her back. After she had told them their origins they had promised not to stare too much. Sansa had expected their looks of pity, but not their awe.

“You are so strong, Your Grace. I don’t know what I would have done if it’d been me.”

“You would have survived,” Sansa replied, staring at her reflection in the mirror while the girls moved to braid her hair, “as I had to.”

The maids seemed to become nigh on inseparable after this and were always very attentive to her. Sansa repaid them in kind, checking in on them and making sure they had everything they needed, which truly only served to make them more devoted. She felt proud that she didn’t need to inspire fear to keep her supporters loyal. Though fear was a useful tool too.

The chatter of the girls was a comfort to her, and it also helped her find out all the gossip. The bond the girls shared, and the one Sansa did well to foster between them, meant that they often gave her little reports in guise of idle chatter - they were very good.

It was during one of her long counsel sessions with several other leaders of the Northern Houses, that one of her maids approached and whispered something in her ear. The Lords all looked as though they weren’t trying to hear, pretending to carry on their own conversations until Sansa thanked her maid and stood.

“I feel we have achieved a substantial amount this morning, perhaps we can resume this discussion later today?” Rumbles of agreement and bowing took place before Sansa excused herself and walked calmly toward the door. Brienne followed.

Ice was out roaming the Godswood though Sansa could have done with her sharp teeth and rumbling growl.

As soon as the door had closed behind her she walked quickly to Lady Walda’s chambers.

*****

Walda had been through a lot in her life so far. She’d often been the last one to be remembered but first looked upon with scorn. She had been thrilled to be chosen to marry Lord Bolton, even if it was just because of her weight. The…wifely duties hadn’t been too bad either but she could never get a read on him; he was calm, cool, impassive. She was never sure whether she was pleasing to him as a wife, though she tried her best. It hadn’t been so bad. He’d also never hurt her, or let Ramsay hurt her. Ramsay had terrified her, though he tried to act like a Lord should, there was a coldness in his eyes.

At Winterfell she’d been respected, looked up to, treated kindly all because she was the wife of Lord Bolton, and now he was dead…well she didn’t know what to do.

There had been a few incidents with guards and a few servants who now thought it was beneath them to serve her properly, or, sought to curry favour with the Queen by being unkind. Perhaps they expected her to tell the Queen, complain, and then they would contradict her, perhaps make up some lies about her wanting to cause discord in the castle. What Walda hadn’t expected was how to Queen reacted when she found out.

******

“Ser, remove your hand from Lady Rivers’ wrist.”

At the sound of the Queen’s voice the former Bolton guard released Walda as though he had been burnt; he spun on his heel, pale as snow and now quite terrified, obviously searching for her absent wolf. Walda had to admit she did not want to see ‘Ice’ either.

“What were you doing?” The Queen asked quietly, the polite tone in her voice made Walda’s heart beat a horrified staccato in her chest. She’d used the tone before, at her wedding…

“Your Grace, I—I—“ The guard’s mouth turned dry and any word he might’ve spoken got caught in his throat, all that escaped was a strangled sound. Walda doubted she would fare any better under the gaze of the Queen. She was terrifying - so different now from the meek young woman who had turned up with Lord Baelish at Winterfell’s gates so many weeks ago.

There was a long moment of silence where the Queen looked the guard up and down cooly, she seemed to be weighing something up in her mind, for what Walda didn’t know.

“Find Lady Mormont and tell her I sent you.” The Queen said finally.

The guard nodded his head quickly, bowed, armour chinking as he moved, “Yes, My Queen—“ he left, looking as though he was trying very hard not to run.

Now The Queen’s look turned to her, and Walda’s eyes shot down to the floor.

“Why did you not tell me?” she asked lowly and took a step forward.

It was perhaps a good thing that the weather was so cold in the north, forcing everyone to cover up completely, but the Queen had seen the way she flinched when she took a step closer, and held her wrist a little closer to her body. She looked up and then back down at the floor.

“I did not…want to cause you any trouble, Your Grace.” Walda’s voice was barely audible and she tried not to let it shake.

“ _Trouble_?” The Queen repeated. “I won’t have it.”

Walda’s shoulders drooped as her stomach seemed to settle in her feet. Her brothers and cousins had laughed and said that her Lord husband might get tired of her and toss her out. It seemed that the Queen was going to do that instead.

“Are you well?”

Walda jerked back at the sound of the Queen’s voice so close to her face, she hadn’t noticed her move this time and the Queen reached out for Walda’s arm in a surprisingly gentle grip and peeled back the sleeve of her gown.

Purple and green and yellowing bruises in the shape of fingers littered her arm with a larger, darker, bruise already forming around to circle her wrist.

“How long has this been going on?” The Queen’s voice was cold and Walda shivered a little.

“Only a week or two, Your Grace, it’s not so bad—“

“I will be the judge of that.” The Queens face was drawn tight and her mouth was pinched in anger. Walda and seen the same look, albeit briefly, on the face of Lady Catelyn when she had been at the twins. The two were remarkably similar in looks though Walda doubted Lady Catelyn would have broken Ramsay’s neck with her own two hands. “When I said you would stay at Winterfell, Lady Rivers, I meant for it to be a comfortable life. Not this.” she held Walda’s bruised arm gently with her slender hands. “You are under my protection and I said that no harm shall come to you while you remain loyal.” Walda was speechless. Why was the Queen being so kind to her? Was she not going to send her away for being the cause of trouble? She wanted to cry. The Queen gently let go of her arm and stepped back. “I will send for the Maester to check you over. Have you had your lunch yet?”

Walda didn’t dare to lie so shook her head slowly. She knew it was nearing two o’clock. This seemed to anger the Queen and Walda wondered whether the kitchen staff or guards would have it in for her worse now the Queen knew.

“You will wait here while I inform the rest of the household and guards that you are to be treated like everyone else - with _courtesy_.”

“Yes, Your Grace. Thank you, Your Grace.”

Walda couldn’t help but watch as the Queen swept from the room, face as cold and fierce as a winter storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Stannis in this one but the next one. yes. Lots of stannis. I promise.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stannis gets a letter...

The going is slow through the snow. Sometimes the drifts reach above his knees when he is standing in it, though it is rare when he is not mounted on his horse. The spirited Destrier makes short work of the snow as though it is nothing more than powder and had they all been able to ride such beasts they would have been at Winterfell by now.

Stannis feels a small twinge of regret as he looks to his left and sees Shireen, bundled up in so many furs, and still shivering, that he almost wishes he had left her at Castle Black. But she is safer here with him, _even with_ Melisandre around, Shireen is better off with him. Davos rides close beside his daughter, sometimes engaging her in idle chatter to keep her occupied and try to forget about the cold. As though sensing his stare, Shireen takes this moment to look at him, he can only see her eyes, but through the snow and icy wind, they crinkle at the corners and he can tell that she’s smiling. How she can still be so cheerful out in this cold, desolate place is beyond him. Stannis nods stiffly back, and he isn’t sure but it seems to get just a little warmer; a difference so small that it is barely noticeable.

Shouts come from up ahead and Stannis snaps himself out of his thoughts and urges his horse forward, urging it a little faster to reach the first riders

“They say they’ve come from the Queen,” one his men says when they see Stannis approach and dismount. The snow is shallower here so it only reaches partway up his boots. The rest of the host begins to go around them, they will not waste time by stopping and it is doubtful that this will take long.

“You mean, _Lady Sansa Stark_.” Stannis grinds out.

_She calls herself Queen and yet she is just a girl - what does she know of ruling?_

It’s a man - a guard, and a…what looks to be a walking corpse.

Had they not both been bundled up in layers of furs, and clearly chilled by the weather, perhaps he would have mistaken them for White Walkers.

The guard stands stiffly, trying not to shake from the cold, he looks thoroughly miserable with regret clearly spread across his face. The regret is probably due that he is out in the cold, perhaps he had volunteered in _honour_ of his Queen. Stannis almost scoffs aloud at the thought. The smaller, thinner one He shivers like a thin branch in a strong wind, eyes wide and just a little bit nervous, trembling as he looks up at Stannis. He says nothing other than “Your Grace,” and bows stiffly in the cold. He looks as though he is about to collapse.

“I—I have a m-message for Your Grace” The guard says. He is young, cannot be more than five and twenty, and now looks thoroughly miserable, teeth chattering he reaches into the folds of his cloak…

He is immediately met with drawn swords and steel. “A message! A L-letter! Please, I intend no harm—“ he yelps, drawing his hand out and holding them both up so they can see that they are empty, his companion cringes beside him.

“Get this letter then.” Stannis orders and with shaking hands the man finds it quickly and holds it out. He takes the sealed parchment without fanfare and opens it in one swift move, his eyes scanning the page quickly as he reads while the shivering man continues to talk.

“Her Grace s-said to tell you that s-she wishes for a peaceful r-resolution—“

“Oh quit your stammering, I’ll read her missive myself.”

_King Stannis Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm._

_I hope your journey from the Wall has been with as little difficulty as is possible and that you are not suffering too terribly from the cold. I have been praying for your safe passage from The Wall since I was told you had left it._

_Repairs are ongoing to prepare the castle and make sure your rooms are ready for as many of you and yours as possible, though I don’t think we will be able to house all of your soldiers. However the lands around Winterfell and Winter Town should be enough to create a fine camp._

_Hopefully the messengers whom carried this missive are still agreeable and will be willing to assist you until they return to Winterfell._

_I eagerly await your arrival._

_Queen in the North._

The Stark messengers, the guard especially, looked increasingly nervous as they watched the Kings face. They could only guess at what the Queen had written to him in her missive - perhaps she had asked the King to flog them or perhaps had taken to insulting him and he would take his anger out on them to send her a message…

Stannis looks up from the letter, teeth creaking and thrusts the missive at Davos who takes it quickly, surprised, but tucks it away for safekeeping.

The King then turns to the messengers and gives his verdict. They brace themselves for the impact of what will likely be a terrible punishment - perhaps they will be burned…

“You will join the host until we reach Winterfell. Keep up or you will be left behind.” the King mounts his horse and urges it forward leaving the guards, Davos and the two Stark messengers looking nervously at the King’s retreating back.

*****

Davos was rather concerned for the condition of the map and figurines - the King had been increasingly agitated after reading Lady Stark’s missive. Davos would not refer to her as the Queen as she was not, in fact, the rightful ruler of the north. Warden, yes. Queen, no.

“She’s either very stupid or thinks herself rather witty—“

Davos thought Stannis was far more irritated about this than he should be. Davos though this was rather more simple than engaging the Boltons. “The letter seemed rather nice to me, Your Grace.”

It truly had, quite flowery at times and rather friendly - odd that if she saw them as her enemy she would have sent such a thing. Davos had hope that this could all be done with quickly and hopefully convince the northmen and their queen to bend the knee.

“I doubt she would have the courage to mock me to my face - _I eagerly await your arrival_ \- ha!”

How long had the King been thinking over that same phrase?

“You never know, it may be true—“

“I had thought you smarter than this, Davos. If the girl thinks she can charm me with honeyed words and courtesy she is mistaken! Like the other usurpers, like her brother, if she does not bend the knee—“

“Your Grace! There is no need for that!”

“Then what would you suggest we do, Davos? I could ask Lady Mel—“

“We simply have to find out what she wants!” By all the Gods, Davos really did not want another burning - not even leeches!

The black magic Lady Melisandre whispered about to Stannis made Davos cringe and shivers run down his spine. It was unnatural, he couldn’t deny her powers, but there was something about the rituals and the burnings and the chants that didn’t sit well with him. Now however, he was glad there seemed to be some distance between the two, though The King had not confided in him as to the cause.

Davos wishes he could make Stannis see that he does not need the Red Woman at all. He is _enough_.

“And what does she want Davos, hmm? Wealth, jewels, riches? She has those already. Lands? She has the North. Titles? She is Warden of the North under a King - the only surviving Stark - and Queen of the North without! Her mother and father and brother? I cannot give her those either—“ Stannis frowns, putting down the carved Stark Direwolf onto the map. For the longest time there is silence in the tent. Outside the wind howls and men stomp their feet to keep warm though it does them little good.

Then, Stannis straightens and Davos recognises the look on his face. Strategy. Calm, cool, calculation. This is the King he has known, the King he has missed. “I may not know what she wants yet…but perhaps her messengers may give us an insight. Bring them here I wish to speak with them.”

Davos bows and strides out of the tent with purpose.

There must be _something_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am rather sleep deprived (cats fighting outside my open window and then my /lovely/ neighbour deciding that it is a good idea to cut his grass at 7 in the morning on a saturday!) but I'm still posting this chapter. Hopefully there aren't too many glaring errors. Good news is, Stannis meets Sansa in the next chapter and I'm almost finished with University for the year!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stannis arrives at Wintefell  
> (and Shireen is still alive)

Seeing the small smudge on the horizon, known to be Winterfell, had made Stannis push his men through the morning and well past time for dinner. The sun had soon set and he can feel the gnawing ache of hunger chew at his insides. _But_ , he thinks, _I have dealt with worse_.

Shouts come from the castle and the gate is raised in preparation. Anxiety overtakes hunger for a moment as he looks at his daughter. He has only ever seen Shireen this excited when he arrived back on Dragonstone. However, the happy, excited light in her eyes is different this time. He was familiar, a pleasant (though he cannot fathom it) sight for her, while Winterfell is new. A place to be discovered and examined and its history learned.

Winterfell looms overhead and Shireen bounces slightly in her saddle in excitement as her eyes take in the rough stone walls, towers and frosty landscape. The furs come away from her face and he can see the greyscale. He can see her smile.

“Don’t look, Princess,” Davos says as they come closer. He is looking where heads are mounted on spikes above the gate but Shireen looks at his Onion Knight and asks _why_. Davos is of course surprised but answers her anyway.

Stannis had long ago noticed that Davos could not deny his daughter anything.

“Because that isn’t a sight for ladies like yourself and I won’t have it upsetting you.”

Shireen is not upset, as far as he can see. The morbid curiosity is plain on her face as they approach, the faces of the dead are grey and mottled and frozen stiff in the cold winter weather. He can feel Selyse’s disapproving gaze on their daughter, but Stannis says nothing. He lets her look.

He is tense as they enter the gates on horses. Their guards fan out from either side behind him to protect Shireen should the new Northern Queen decide to give him the same fate as the Boltons. If he is to die his knights know that they will seat his daughter on the Iron Throne. It is his right. As it is hers.

He looks around - there are servants and builders moving about the place, but there is no sign of the _Queen_.

No greeting party either.

Stannis grinds his teeth.

Lady Stark wishes to be difficult it seems.

He stays mounted as the rest of his guard file in behind him and Davos steers his horse to his side and looks at Stannis with a frown on his face. “Now what?”

Stannis doesn’t get a chance to answer because out of the main doors comes a rather harried looking old woman, clearly out of breath.

“Your Grace,” she says, bowing quickly, “you’ll have to forgive us, we weren’t expecting you until tomorrow—“

Stannis doesn’t bother with pleasantries. Westeros knows him well enough that he doesn’t mince words. “Where is Lady Stark?” He is direct. They should be pleased that he doesn’t waste their time.

The old woman blinks rapidly up at him as though she cannot quite believe it. “The Queen is currently in a counsel session in the Great Hall—I have been given instructions to direct you to your chambers and see to your needs until the Queen is done—“

Stannis can hear Selyse scoff behind him and Melisandre speaks out, her voice almost a purr. “You are speaking to the Rightful King of Westeros, watch your tongue.”

Selyse and Melisandre continue to extoll the virtues of Rohollor while berating those who supported the ‘false Queen’ and did not support the ‘True God’. He lets them go on for a moment but cuts in quickly. Even Stannis can feel the tension rising from the inhabitants of Winterfell.

“She will see me now.” he says and dismounts, he can already sense Davos’ unease both with his wife’s insults and Stannis’ own directness. “You will see to it that the rest of my party have suitable rooms and food for the evening meal.”

Seemingly over her shock the woman straightens up and meets his eye firmly. “I’m afraid you will have to wait, the Queen is not to be disturbed.”

Stannis pauses only a moment. “You will take me there.”

“I have my orders, Your Grace.” He is not surprised in the least. Those from the North have always had the startling habit of standing up to precisely the wrong people. Loyalty is a good trait, but rather pointless to put herself against him now.

He will meet Lady Stark today.

“Greyjoy, come here.” he orders, his voice carrying through the yard easily.

Theon emerges from the gathering, shoulders hunched and eyes lowered to the ground.

“Yes, Your Grace,” he says quietly.

“You will take me to the Great Hall.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” he repeats.

Theon starts to walk toward the hall and the woman sees the stubborn look on Stannis’ face and simply lets out a quiet sigh. She steps aside to let him pass.

As Stannis walks away softly spoken words almost make him pause.

_“On your head be it.”_

*****

As he is led through the courtyard and into the castle itself, whomever they pass stops and bows and says “ _Your Grace._ ” It is puzzling to him though he does not let it show on his face, his guards are less reserved about expressing their confusion.

At first Stannis had thought it mockery but he hears no laughter, or giggles or snorts when they leave. There are no smiles either and he realises their words are sincere.

It is odd considering he is here to make their Queen bend the knee…and if she doesn’t. _Well_. 

“ _Wait_!”

Stannis turns and sees Shireen running to catch up with him, he stops and watches as Davos pants and hurries along behind her. “What are you doing? You need to go with your mother and Lady Melisandre. Davos, take the Princess to her chambers.”

Davos nods and moves to guide the Princess away but Shireen shoots forward and latches onto his arm. Her eyes, his eyes, look up at him imploringly. “Please father, please, I so want to see the Lady Sansa! Don’t make me go back and stay with mother…”

Shireen’s eyes are bright and hopeful and Stannis attempts to squash the rush of anxiety he feels. Perhaps he should have left Shireen and Selyse back at the Wall - he doesn’t know this Northern Queen, it’s a possibility that she could turn on him…

“Please?” Stannis grinds his teeth.

He is a fool for his daughter.

“Very well, but you will stay close to the guards and with Ser Davos at all times. You will not speak unless spoken to—“

“I will do as I am told, Father.” she says solemnly but a smile cracks her facade and she grins at him, excited.

Stannis turns back to Theon, “Keep going.” the boy does as he is told and they soon reach the Great Hall. Inside he can hear raised voices. He looks at his guards to Davos and back down to Shireen. She does her best to school her expression but she cannot hide her excitement. Stannis turns to the doors and pushes them open in one swift movement.

*****

Sansa comes to the Godswood not only to pray but to relax in the warm pools that can be found there. It’s a wonderful contrast to winter’s chill, though she does not mind that either. Her hair is piled up at the top of her head with bands and pins her maids have put there, but the rest of her is bare beneath the hot water.

It’s soothing lying here like this. She had often come here with Jeyne when they were younger to giggle and splash about in the water. Now it is hers alone and the hot water helps to soothe away the aches and stresses of being Queen. She loves it, truly, but the counsel meetings go on for hours and there are endless things to be seen to. Even a Queen needs some time alone to relax.

Sansa hears the shift and clink of armour and she casts her eyes to Brienne who stands tall and straight, her closely cropped blonde hair is now a little longer and Sansa knows that the Mormonts are trying to persuade her to grow it out to put a warrior's braid in - they have gotten on well, Maege and Dacy and Brienne. Perhaps her sworn shield wishes she had been born a mormont, and then perhaps her desires to be a Knight would not be so strange as they had been in the South. Brienne has almost become a friend of hers too, but recently she has held herself a little more stiffly, eyes more watchful and lips pressed into a tight line. Now she stands a little ways away from the pool Sansa is reclining in, watching out for any who would seek to peek or disturb her peace.

“You have not been yourself these past few days Brienne.” Sansa says over the silence around them. Her sworn shield stays quiet and Sansa hums as she looks at the side of Breinne’s stiff, sullen face with concern. “I want you to tell me why.”

Brienne shifts and readjusts her hands on the handle of her sword. “You won’t die on my watch.” Brienne says eventually.

Sansa is puzzled. “Of course I won’t. You are a fine sworn shield and I am lucky to have you. Why would you think this?”

This time Brienne answers almost immediately and Sansa realises what the problem has been all along. “Stannis Baratheon is coming.” Sansa knows of Brienne’s plight, Littlefinger had told her of Brienne's apparent King-slaying, but it will be good for Brienne to express herself rather than keep it bottled up.

“And what has he done to earn your enmity?”

“He killed his brother.” She says, and then softer, “ _King Renly_.”

“Ah, _the shadow_ you spoke of before, at the Inn.” Sansa prompts.

As she suspected it would, Brienne’s head whips around to look at her Lady where before she had remained stiff and frozen. There is the emotion she had concealed these past weeks. Now, her face is open, pained, and her eyes burn brightly against her face. “I would not lie to you, My Queen. I know what I saw; a Shadow with the face of Stannis Baratheon - it flew through the tent and stuck a dark sword through King Renly’s chest—“

“I can see you cared for Renly, Brienne—“

“Not in the way you might think—“

“I know.” Sansa says softly, “His fondness for Ser Loras was well known.” Brienne snorts though there is a small smile on her face, probably remembering one time or another. “If you wish it…you need not be around when his Grace arrives—“

“No, Your Grace I—“

Sansa lifts a hand from the water and Brienne falls silent. “I heard that Stannis first went for peace, Brienne. But from what I have been told, the King is a proud and stubborn man who would rather starve than eat at an enemy’s table. It wasn’t right that Renly died, but you must understand it from Stannis’ view, and my own. I know you were there and that Renly did mock Stannis a little." Brienne looked about to protest but Sansa quieted her with a look. "Remember that Robert had made Renly, the youngest brother, Lord of Storm’s End over Stannis too. That had to rankle when he was given Dragonstone, a cold, decrepit castle, almost inhabitable, rather than the seat that was his by right after Robert ascended the throne.”

Brienne’s jaw was clenched tight and Sansa imagined she could hear her teeth creaking in her mouth.

“But…when you spoke of the Shadow, it didn’t ring right with me. For all I have heard of Stannis, he prefers to fight his battles himself, not by some magic.”

“The priestess he travels with is dangerous. They say she has ensorcelled him.” Brienne blurts and Sansa nods. She has heard this too.

“Well, we shall know in a few days if this too rings true. He will want me to bend the knee."

Brienne looks at Sansa worriedly. She has not told anyone of her plans though she knows they think she will bend.

"If you would like, I can find out the truth about this shadow?”

Brienne nods and swallows thickly, her eyes gaining a watery edge. “Thank you,” she says quietly and goes back to looking out into the Godswood.

“Oh, and Brienne…”

“Yes?”

Sansa sinks further into the hot water until it laps around the hairs at the nape of her neck.

“It’s _Lord_ Renly.”

Brienne’s voice is quieter still, but Sansa hears her clear as day.

“Yes, My Queen.”

*****

At his entrance the Lords gathered around a long table by the fire immediately fall silent, their eyes burn into him, but he does not flinch. Stannis glares at every one of them. He sees Manderlys, Karstarks, Mormonts…they are all here, and they remain seated and silent.

He cannot see the Queen.

At his side, Shireen gasps and then hastily covers her mouth with her hand, Stannis follows her look to the back of the hall. Seated on the ‘Throne’ is a wolf. It is only slightly smaller than John Snow’s Direwolf ‘Ghost’. The wolf seems to become larger under his gaze, chest puffing outward and head tilting up.

“ _That must be Ice_ ” Shireen says in a quiet excited voice. She tries to keep her composure but the awe is written plainly on her face.

They have seen no wolves about Winterfell except this one. _An army of wolves, Bah!_  They truly were fanciful tales.

“Lovely, isn’t she?”

The voice is not known to him and Shireen lets out another low gasp, quieter this time, and the guards shift around him anxiously as he turns his head to look.

Having arrived completely unseen, is the Queen.

Stannis is not looking at the wolf when he agrees silently with her words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY THIS CHAPTER JUST RAN AWAY WITH ME.  
> It was meant to be shorter and there was meant to be sass and dialogue between Stannis and Sansa and oh god. Next chapter. Yep. All sass and Stansa. It'll be up soon I promise!
> 
> Also. episode 9. what the flying frick was that.


	10. Chapter 10

“You would have me bow to him?” The words carry through the room, a cold question.

The Northern lords exchange glances, some wary, some proud, some curious.

Maege Mormont knows she has to tread carefully. As much as she loves their Northern Queen, she can be a little prickly - those sweet inquiring smiles send shivers down her spine. She shifts in her seat. “It would, _perhaps_ , be wise Your Grace…” she says lowly.

Their Queen is clever and considerate and always takes their counsel wisely but she keeps her cards close to her chest when they try to bring up Stannis Baratheon. _The King of the South_ , she calls him, though he has no crown nor throne, only sell swords and the gratitude of the Black Brothers from their frozen castles at the wall.

Sansa Stark stands by the fire, warming her hands, surely so close she must be burning the pale skin of her palms by now.

“Petyr Baelish told me to be careful around Roose Bolton once.” she replies conversationally as though they are discussing something as mundane as taxes.

Lady Mormont knows her look is worried. “Your Grace, Stannis Baratheon is not a man to be trifled with!”

The Queen hums. “They said that about Bolton and his Bastard too.” She moves to the window and indicates the spiked heads visible above the gate. “…and look what happened to them.”

*****

Lady Mormont looks worriedly at her. Perhaps she thinks she is going to lose another Northern Ruler.

Sansa tuts silently to herself. She would not be so easily removed.

“Targaryen, Baratheon, Lannister…no matter how many times the Iron Throne has changed hands the North has always stood. We bowed when the dragons came, waged war against the Targaryens, sat a Baratheon on the throne and now we stand against the Lannisters. We are the ones not to be trifled with.” Sansa pauses a moment but no one seeks to interrupt her. “We were overtaken once by a Bolton.” she looks back at them over her shoulder and raises her brows, “and then we were not…And _still_ the North stands.”

She allows herself a small smile, her words are accompanied by nods and low mutters of ‘hear hear!’ as she walks back to her seat at the head of the table. The crown on her brow seems to get a little lighter then. Its weight often deceiving and it is not a blessing as many might think it to be.

“While Stannis Baratheon may claim he has come to free Winterfell, I am not sure what his motivations would have been after.” It is something she has often thought of since word came that he was marching to Winterfell. “Perhaps he thought to give it to one of his men if a Stark was not around? Or seek to marry me off to one of them to secure his hold over my house?” Her Lords shift uneasily in their seats, muttering. She turns around to face them fully, straightening and looking each and every one sternly in the eye.

“You have my word I will do what is best for the North. Not only because it is my duty but because it is my home and what I love. The Southern King will not intimidate me.”

*****

The next day, Sansa stands off to the side, looking out one of the windows to the frozen land beyond, and willed the stiffness in her legs and back to leave her. The council meetings always ran too long. It was difficult, but not impossible, to manage them all. She heard their counsel, their opinions, and tried to find a way to make sure everyone was happy with the outcome. Though often it was impossible, especially regarding what to do when Stannis Baratheon arrived.

_They wanted her to bend the knee._

_They wanted her to remain Queen_.

_They wanted her to march against Stannis._

_They wanted her to join him._

It mattered not in the end because none of her Lords had met Stannis so recently that they knew his mind - and she had never met him at all.

It was said few people were close to the King and even they had difficulty knowing his mind. Her scouts had reported that he was a day's ride away and that left her very little time to plan ahead, because when he arrived, _she_ would need to know his mind.

The doors groan as they are opened and the loud chatter of her Lords fall silent.

Sansa casts a look over her shoulder. _It seems my guests are early._

It’s easy enough not to be seen, half a step closer to the heavy tapestry covering part of the wall beside her and she is out of their sight - the light from the candles and the fire brighten the area around the counsel table, drawing the eyes of the entrants there, her presence by the wall overlooked.

They walk forward until they are level with her, and then they stop. Sansa takes it as a blessing that they haven’t seen her yet because it gives her the chance to observe them. _Observation is key_ , Petyr had told her once.

Stannis Baratheon is everything she expected him to be. He looks tired, and a little worn, but that means nothing. Stannis Baratheon has a will of Iron and she knows he does not want to show weakness. His armour and furred cloak are covered in horsehair, it is obvious he has come straight to her. How long had he been riding, surely it would have been better to rest first?

Sansa knows it is a show of confidence and surety of his ‘rights’ (he wants her to bend the knee, of that she is certain) that he has come to her with only a handful of guards, his Hand Ser Davos, and his only heir, Princess Shireen.

 _Confident, but rather unwise,_ she thinks. _This man does not know her._

Sansa takes her time observing the group from the side, watching how he holds himself stiffly and stares down her Northern Lords seated at the counsel table. He has grown a beard too, probably to help better cover his wind bitten cheeks; it is in the stage just before it turns unruly, making him look not quite wild, but dangerous. The assessment is right of course, Stannis Baratheon is dangerous, this she will not argue.

She has heard from her Lords, Baelish and even her father at times when he had been alive, that Robert would not have won the war if not for Stannis. He held Storms End for over a year, starving and surviving on boot leather and rats while the Tyrells feasted in sight of their walls. Then, when Ser Davos did arrive, Stannis allowed his men to be fed first before having his own meal though he must have truly been starving.

 _It’s rather odd_ , she thinks, _how someone can feel the tension in a room, even if they cannot see it._

Sansa wonders if he will ask her to kneel now, in front of her Lords or perhaps a larger, more ceremonial act in front of his banner men and hers beyond the castle’s gates. He will ask her, she is certain. Her gaze wanders from the King to the other people in his company.

Besides the guards who are all looking rather tense, stands a man, he too looks nervous though it is concealed well. She assumes is Lord Davos Seaworth. Her eyes drift down and…yes, it is him - his three missing fingers, cut off at the joint, confirm it. Though lowborn, he must have shown himself worthy for Stannis Baratheon to raise him to a Lord and name him his hand. He bears watching too.

The Princess however, is different to both her father, his hand, and their guards. She seems excited and enchanted with her new surroundings, her eyes looking curiously over Sansa’s Lords before they settle on her wolf with awe. There is no fear there. The silence in the room cannot last for much longer so now she decides to act. While the Princess looks at Ice, Sansa comes forward to stand beside her.

“Lovely, isn’t she?”

It was quite amusing the way the guards whip around, shifting anxiously as they see her and then her crown. Sansa smiles at the Princess warmly and then her eyes flicker up to meet the rather intense gaze of Stannis Baratheon. Her smile is more polite than warm. Her Lords are watching with wide eyes.

“Your Grace,” she says, “Princess, Lord Seaworth,” she says, nodding to each of them in turn. “We were not expecting you until tomorrow, I am afraid only a fraction of your rooms are ready. I had given instructions that when you arrived you were to be given food and rest. Were these orders not followed?” She is polite, her voice and inflection perfect, her manner made to charm even the surliest of Lords.

“They were followed” the King says, his voice is rather deep, and should she have to describe it, she would have said it was like gravel. “ _Just not needed_.”

None have been immune so far...except Stannis Baratheon.

******

He can see the surprise on her face, brows raising just a fraction. He can practically feel Davos’ desperation. Gods he is tired but he will not rest before he has met her and made his motives known. She will put aside her crown, kneel and pledge her loyalty and service (and that of her Bannermen) to his cause. If she does not...well, there is much to discuss.

Lady Stark seems surprised. Polite. Non-confrontational.

“Not wanted? Forgive me if myself or my staff have offended you in some way.” Stannis remains still and he watches, his eyes narrowing as she seems to think of something that makes her eyes spark with something. “I thought to have your rooms prepared, it is a long journey from the wall to here, and thought you might like to rest, Your Grace.”

“I am not in need of rest. There are matters that require my attention.”

*****

Sansa hears her Lords mutter a little at the lack of respect he gives her. She knows they already dislike her use of ‘Your Grace’ when he offers her no such title in return.

Sansa hums, keeping her voice and face polite. His response is not surprising, he believes himself the rightful king. She turns to Lord Seaworth. “And you ser? Are you not weary?”

He seems uncomfortable at being addressed so directly in front of her Lords but to his credit does not shift overmuch, simply straightens and speaks clearly. “No my Lady, I have energy left yet.”

Sansa nods, but before she can even open her mouth to ask the same Question to the Princess, Shireen’s eyes go wide.

“I’m not tired either! I mean…” her face turns bright red and she casts her gaze down to look at her feet.

*****

Stannis’ snaps his eyes to the face of the Queen, gauging her reaction.

The tales being told on the way to Winterfell had often been exaggerated he thought (army of wolves and the like) but he noticed the wary looks from the Northern Lords meant that the woman was not to be underestimated.

“Sorry, my Lady,” Shireen adds quietly, peeking up through her lashes.

Stannis watches Lady Stark for her reaction, expecting a reprimand or cold look. He had often found that those who did not know his daughter often were colder toward her than they might have been if she had not had Grayscale.

They wait…and wait…and no reprimand comes.

Stannis does not expect the sweet laugh, nor the way Lady Stark’s eyes seem to have a light behind them as she looks at his daughter. It is odd, and rather unsettling. He’s usually rather good at reading people, but so far, Lady Stark has done the opposite of his predictions. Her expression returns to the polite front she put on when she looked at him before and her hands fold neatly in front of her.

“Well then, if you will not retire then at least have something to eat.” She looks to the corner of the room and a girl of two and ten hurries forward. “Tell the cook to prepare something for myself and our guests.” The girl curtseys and hurries out of the room as quickly as she came

Lady Stark then turns to her Lords and they rise by unspoken command.

A fiercely loyal bunch he senses.

“I think we have made satisfying progress today, thank you for your attention, you may leave.”

Stannis knows it is early, they have barely been around each other for more than a few minutes but her reactions he cannot predict. How could she be so naive as to expect them to leave. He could kill her, imprison her, literally do anything should her Lords leave - she would be utterly outnumbered and defenceless. Clearly this woman has little mind for preservation or tactics. As her Lords protest, asking to guard her themselves she continues smiling politely and waves away their protests.

“I do not believe his Grace would harm me. My father put his faith in him before his death and so shall I.” There is a pause and they seem to hesitate. Lady Stark’s smile doesn’t seem to change at all to Stannis, but her Lords must see something in it for they beg their pardons and bow and walk quickly from the room but not so much as to make it look like they are running. The doors close behind several unhappy Lords and Stannis realises that he is quite unsure what to do. He is saved by the presence of the maid from before, and several others who set places at the long table and put steaming hot bowls of food down there. He notes that there are only four.

“Join me?” She says. Stannis doesn’t move and he can feel all eyes move between him and Lady Stark. She looks amused. “I give you my word that I won’t attack you while we eat though I daresay I could defeat you all, eyes closed, and one hand behind my back.” It sounds terribly like she’s teasing him. He thinks he sees her wink at Shireen, but it must have been a trick of his imagination because though Shireen stifles a small gasp and giggle, Lady Stark’s expression turns to concern as she eyes the setting.  

“I am afraid that my maids don’t seem to have set the table for more, it’s terribly rude of me, I can call them back if—“

“No.” Stannis interrupts. Davos coughs loudly beside him. He hasn’t got time for any niceties when there is so much to be done. He looks at his guards. “You may go. I will hold Lady Stark to her word. You will be back in half an hour to escort the Princess to her rooms.”

The guards nod and nervously file out the doors. _It could be a mistake_ , he thinks. The likelihood that Lady Stark would implement an ambush or assassination is now much greater…but so far she has defied every expectation and as much as he hates it, he needs more time to figure her out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, I have a job, and now even more respect for anyone who does anything other than sleep when they get home from work. Fantastic fic has been getting me through my more boring days and I've been planning bits and pieces for all the things I'm currently working on, even if I haven't actually been able to write anything properly. I'm hoping the next chapter won't be so long in coming, but unfortunately, I can make no promises.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of Wednesday 22nd of July I'll be working from 9am till 9pm until the end of august so though I'll try to write in my breaks (definitely taking my laptop in!) updates may be a little slower :(

They sit down at the table and bowls of steaming, fragrant stew rest in front of them. Davos is opposite Shireen, who is seated to his right, while he sits opposite Lady Sansa. She did not take the seat at the head of the table as he expected, but the one across from him, moving her bowl and utensils. He sees a maid approach, obviously desperate to do the menial task for her, but Lady Sansa shakes her head and smiles.

“The bowl is hot, My Lady!” The maid says with a gasp when Lady Sansa picks it up with her hands and moves it from one place setting to another.

“I can do it myself, Millie.” she says with a playful roll of her eyes toward Shireen.

He doesn’t quite know how to feel about that. Perhaps she is trying to get the Princess on-side before she makes a move against him? “Was there anything else?”

The maid shakes her head. “No, My Lady.”

Lady Sansa nods. “Then you may leave - oh! Please make sure the Queen and Lady Melisandre have been given food and drink.”

The maid gives a wobbly curtsey and leaves after saying the usual, “Your Grace...your grace...Princess...Lord Hand.”

Sitting as they are, and moving her bowl and utensils to sit opposite him implies she thinks of them as equals, and again, he wonders at her motives. Stannis remembers her letter. It had tried to be charming. _I eagerly await your arrival_...the words have run over in his mind more often than he cares to admit. It is blatant mockery. No one has ever been pleased to see him, except Davos and Shireen, though they are obligated to feel that way, he thinks. He comes to the realisation rather quickly that she intends to be charming, and then, when they let their guard down, she will strike. Or not. He is sure she intends to stay Queen in the North. Though she has told her servants (unless they are hedging their bets) to address him as ‘Your Grace’...There are too many possibilities.

It is far more confusing than needs be and he cannot help but grind his teeth a little.

The smell of the food hits his nose, far better than what they had eaten on the way to Winterfell from the Wall, and his stomach rages at him when he refuses to eat. It is for a good reason. Shireen looks at her own bowl with longing though holds herself back when he shoots his gaze to her. She sits back in her chair but the longing look continues. Davos knows not to eat either, he too has guessed Stannis thoughts.

“Lady Stark, your position as Queen in the North cannot continue. I am the Rightful King of the seven Kingdoms and the North is one of them.” She takes a small sip of her drink, wine he suspects, watching him over the rim of her cup. She seems amused almost. “Should you bend the knee I will instate you as Warden of the North.” He waits for her acceptance. Surely she knows that she cannot keep the North.

“And should I refuse?” She asks lightly as though there are not real consequences for her treason and they are playing some sort of game.

“Then you will be sentencing many of your bannermen to death in a war that will waste both time, provisions and lives. Should you go against me, Lady Stark, you will find that you will not have help in the war against the frozen army beyond The Wall.”

“And I will not find help elsewhere, will I? Not from further inland or across the sea?” She tilts her head to the side slightly as she considers him, dragging her eyes from his chest up to his face and looks into his eyes. “No. I think not. When the Black Brothers sent out those ravens I think they were very fortunate that one landed on Dragonstone that day.” She seems to look through him. “A King who cares about the Realm has become very rare indeed.” The tension in the room could be cut with a spoon. Davos sits stiffly at Lady Sansa’s side and though Shireen seems rather entranced, switching from looking between her food, Lady Sansa and him, it is clear she can sense it too. Suddenly, Lady Sansa gives a soft laugh. “This is a little morbid to be dinner conversation, and I wouldn’t want our food to go cold. Let us eat before we talk of such awful things.” She seems to have no qualms about eating her own meal, but Stannis Davos and Shireen do not touch theirs.

Considering Lady Sansa’s attendance at Joffrey Lannister’s Wedding Feast and his subsequent demise, it is perhaps wise not to eat or drink anything offered at her table.

Stannis looks to Lady Sansa, their eyes meeting and her hand pauses, spoon filled with stew, halfway to her mouth. She lowers it back down to her plate, looking concerned.

“Is there something wrong?” she asks.

 _As if she did not know,_ he thinks scathingly. He doesn’t answer her. _Let her work it out herself if that is truly the case._ He raises an eyebrow in what could be considered a challenge. To her credit, it doesn’t take her long to figure out why they aren’t eating.

“You think it’s poisoned.” She says. Her amusement, in fact all expression has gone from her face.

“It’s not so far fetched as you may believe.”

“Oh it’s not far fetched. It is worryingly common don’t you think? Lord Aryn, Joffrey...I do believe they even tried to poison Danaerys Targaryen once though I can’t quite recall if it was before or after she hatched her dragons.” Lady Sansa pauses. “Do you think I have done it myself?”

He ignores Davos’ intense (pleading) stare. Do not. His eyes seem to say. “Perhaps.” Davos is probably sweating beside Lady Stark, or about to tear out his hair from Stannis’ remarks. Lady Sansa says nothing. Instead, she gets up.

"The stew is delicious, I assure you...but if you will not eat then I will just have to do it for you."

To Stannis’ great surprise, and that of Davos, Lady Sansa stands and walks calmly around the table only to stop at his left side. She reaches down for his fork, and without further ado, spears a bite sized piece of meat and lifts it up--he grabs her wrist, halting the movement, and from the back of the hall her wolf growls low in it’s chest.

“ _Hush_ , Ice.” she says. The wolf is silenced, but from the corner of his eye, Stannis can see the beast has left the chair to sit at the bottom of the dias, ready to attack should Lady Sansa give the command. Clearly she has some control over one wolf. He still has his sword however. Davos would protect Shireen while he slay the beast should she betray them.

“You don’t have a food tester.” She says, looking pointedly at his wrist. “I cannot abide waste, and so I shall do it and then you may eat.”

“And if the food is poisoned?”

“Then it will be very unfortunate for me and I’m sure Ice would be terribly displeased.”

His hand is still holding her wrist.

“You say you have not poisoned our meals, but what if one of your staff thought to get rid of the king before you bent the knee, and to do it for you so you would be blameless? A maid or cook?"

Lady Sansa huffs, “Then poisoning me would certainly put a damper on their plans. Most inconvenient I imagine. Now, if you’ll let go of my wrist--” She tilts her head to the side a little, exposing the more of her long pale neck and her voice is full of humour, a challenge there as she delicately shrugs off his arm. “ _Thank you_.”

They all watch as Lady Sansa brings the piece of meat up to her mouth and far too slowly to be serious, and because she is looking directly into his eyes at the time, it is a touch mocking. She opens her mouth and uses her teeth to drag the meat from the fork, her lips closing around the silver prongs as she pulls the utensil away and begins to chew slowly, savouring every bite. She makes a low hum of approval and her eyes close briefly. Stannis suddenly feels very uncomfortable, a flush of heat scorching the back of his neck and he can feel his underarms prickling with sweat.

Her eyes open, again looking him straight in the eye, and her voice is soft as she replies, “Delicious.”

Next she picks up his cup, “just to make sure,” she says, leaning her hip against the table and body turned toward him as she raises it to her lips. He can see the trickle of water from the rim of the cup into her open mouth, and when she puts the cup back down and swallows, she brushes her tongue along her lower lip to catch any stray drops of water. She seems quite aware that he can’t keep his eyes off her, and so, to make her think that she hasn’t fooled him, his eyes narrow into his usual scowl. He has seen many women who lick their lips and bat their eyes, and they all make their living in all the ports in the world.

After a minute or so, when she shows no ill effects she hands Stannis his fork and moves around to Shireen’s plate who seems a mixture between concerned (if it is poisoned) and eager (that she may finally be able to eat). There is none of the slowness of movements from Lady Sansa this time, seemingly reserved just for him. When the Princess’ dish is given the all-clear Sansa moves around again and without a by-your-leave or excuse-me, she uses her spoon to dip into Davos’ bowl and helps herself to a small serving of meat and vegetables, managing to eat it without lacking manners or spilling any.

“My Lady!” Davos says, alarmed. It would be logical, Stannis thinks, to poison Davos if they would not poison his own dish. It is well known how he relies on the man and he offers sound advice. The thought of someone harming Davos, or Shireen, or indeed any of those whom he shares a rare tolerance, is enough to make him grind his teeth in agitation. Davos had often remarked that he is surprised he has much of them left.

Lady Stark smiles unrepentantly at Davos and carries on chewing. She finishes her mouthful by washing it down with water from his goblet. Davos’ dish, which is again, unpoisoned.

She smiles as she returns to her seat and picks up her own utensils to eat her meal. “It’s good to see that your worries are unfounded. However, if you wish for a food tester I have a few I can recommend.”

There is very little talk while they eat and drink, though Davos and Shireen comment on how good it is. Stannis finishes his meal with a controlled pace. He wastes nothing and then finished waits for Lady Stark to be done before he starts to talk. Now they can get on to business.

“Lady Stark,” he begins and all eyes snap to him. “While I am glad that you have somehow managed to free Winterfell of Boltons, your position as Queen of the North cannot continue. I am the rightful King of Westeros as you have acknowledged and as such you must bend the knee. Should you do so I will instate you as Warden of the North, as next eldest child of Lord Stark.” He is sure Davos would bang his head on the table if he thought it would be polite. His speech does not garner the reaction he expects, though he watches and remembers the way her blue eyes widen and then narrow, barely noticeable, and the way her mouth curls downward as she pats her mouth with a cloth and looks him in the eye.

Very few can meet his eyes for so long or so often as she does.

“I think it is far too late in the evening to be discussing such matters.” She answers with a smile. Always with a smile. “Surely this can wait till tomorrow once we are better rested? I am sure the Princess would be bored of such talk and would much rather explore?”

All eyes turn to Shireen and his daughter turns a little wide eyed at the suggestion. She looks to him for help.

“Well then, that’s settled.” Lady Stark says, her smile seems warmer as she looks at Shireen. “It’s rather exciting to be in a new place, isn’t it? I shall give you a tour tomorrow if you like?”

Shireen seems to brighten at the idea, and though she does not speak, she once again looks to Stannis for approval.

“A tour.” he agrees and Shireen’s eyes brighten. Lady Sansa’s smile gets a little wider. “ _After_ we have settled matters.” Shireen’s expression dims a little, but she does not protest.

Lady Stark’s attention turns on him. “I insist.” Lady Stark says, “There is little daylight and Winterfell is far too dangerous to traverse at night if you do not know it. Even with someone to guide you it is difficult. I also insist that I be the one with the honour to give the Princess a tour as there are none here today who know the castle and lands in the North better than I.” Lady Stark thinks herself the perfect hostess. It is a part to be played, nothing more. “The business you speak of can be settled another time. I’m sure the Princess will burst with curiosity before we are done!”

Soon enough, after more banal, useless chatter, Shireen begins to yawn. Lady Sansa calls for a maid, who seemed to appear out of nowhere, to fetch Shireen’s guards to take her back to her room. Once the Princess is gone, Stannis tries to steer the conversation onto Lady Stark’s alliances and bending the knee...but she has none of it. Perhaps he should not be so surprised that she manages to steer the conversation so effectively and as they speak, and Stannis finds himself becoming more and more frustrated.

He was glad to be rid of Kings Landing for all their diversions and honeyed words and lies. If only she would tell him her intentions forthwith then they would save much time and energy.

Unfortunately, it is not to be and when Davos tries to soften his words yet again, though Lady Sansa seems unperturbed, Stannis orders him check on Shireen and he does so reluctantly.

Their conversation (though it is more like a battle) lasts for another hour before Lady Sansa begs weariness and says she will discuss the matter with him in the morning. She also tells him that while they are at Winterfell they should take the time to relax and recover, there is no rush.

 _No rush indeed,_ Stannis thinks, _no rush to put aside your crown!_

He arrives back at his room and the door slams rather more forcefully than he had intended. He is not surprised to find Davos waiting there, seated in a chair by the fire and apparently just beginning to doze off.

Davos hastily stands, blinking, as Stannis enters and asks how the discussion with Lady Stark went as he rubs his face, clearly exhausted.

“How do you think it went?” Stannis says shortly, slinging his cloak onto the back of a chair. The walls of Winterfell are warm and it made his brisk walk to his room rather uncomfortable, his own guards who had returned to escort him there had struggled to keep pace. For once he will look forward to removing his armour. “It was like holding a basket full of vipers. Difficult and annoying. She avoided every question, spoke only of what she wished to and refused to be direct about any and all matters pertaining to her fealty.” He walks to the window and then to the bed at the other side of the room. “The woman is stubborn and I think we will have _many_ difficulties before she bends the knee.”

His words are forced through gritted teeth as he paces back and forth about his room. He takes in the details as he paces as though it held the answers to his problems. Desk, chair, bed piled with warm furs, comfortable. Not over the top or decorated as due his station. The room suits his purposes but he is annoyed that it is so suitable. Perhaps it is because what wealth Lady Sansa has is being poured into restoring the castle or that she has figured him out before he has done the same for her. He has been described many times and is known throughout Westeros as someone who does not appreciate opulence (the kindest of summaries), so perhaps she knows from that.

He walks the floor several more times, thinking and scowling and grinding his teeth before he stops in front of his Hand. “You know what to do?” He asks, looking intently at Davos, searching for any sign of reluctance. He knows there are others who could do this task for him but none he trusts so much as Davos. It is a big risk to send one of his most level-headed advisors away, but it is one he must take if he is to succeed in his endeavours.

Davos sees his searching gaze and straightens under his eyes. “Yes, Your Grace.” Davos says lowly. “I will leave in the morning.”

They speak in low voices of their plan, the guard and provisions Davos will need until Stannis sees the weary look on his friend’s face and orders him to bed. Davos bids him goodnight, receiving only a huff in return.

He had wanted to say that Davos could rest a few days before he set out, but in truth, if Lady Stark continues to be difficult there is not much else he can do and the North will surely suffer.

It is a long time before the King retires.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for sticking with this fic! As always I love hearing what you think and look forward to chatting with you in the comments :D


	12. Chapter 12

Davos sets out before first light with some of Stannis’ best guards. When the travelling party had been arranged Davos had protested. The King would need every loyal soldier to make the North bend the knee and keep himself safe should the North decide that they did not want a ‘southerner’ ruling them again. Of course, The King would not have it and that is why he and six other men set out in the dark, laden with provisions in what was bound to be an exhausting and dangerous task.

There are of course many more loyal men staying back with the King at Winterfell, but it is not he or the Queen Davos fears for most. It is the Princess. She is sweet and far too trusting, and though Lady Sansa does not look like she will plot to harm the princess or his king, the rumours about her are troubling.

So far she has been pleasant enough, even quite jovial when they arrived, and was polite to the Princess. The evening spent between them as she stayed cool under the King’s slowly increasing ire was almost admirable if it didn’t hinder their plans to unite Westeros and tackle the White Walkers at the Wall.

To unite Westeros, they would need the North, other houses would soon follow especially with the support of the Iron Bank behind them, but to get the North they needed Lady Stark’s cooperation. Perhaps she would warm to the Princess enough to see her father seated on the throne.

If Davos had to put his golden dragons anywhere, he would say Lady Stark didn’t seem likely to harm the Princess - she had not harmed Lady Walda either and the girl had been married to her brother’s murderer! A simple name change and lower station and she had let the girl live. Davos only hoped the Princess would not be too upset with him when she found out he had already departed, though he hoped she would like his hand-carved stag he left for her, he had not had time to say goodbye.

As Davos left, he missed encountering Lady Stark by mere minutes as she, Brienne of Tarth and two tired, shivering maids, left through the gates of Winterfell, heading into The King’s camp where his soldiers slept.

*****

“Are you sure we should be doing this, Your Grace?”

Sansa looks at Millie and Erin over her shoulder before turning back to the task at hand - checking Stannis Baratheon’s camp to see whether all the soldiers were equipped well enough for the winter. Brienne walks silently behind them all, hand on the hilt of her sword, though there is little she will be able to do against so many if something should happen.

“It is cold out so I think they will be grateful for an extra fur. I doubt the King would deny his soldiers something so essential.” Sansa is grateful for her furs, even though it seems she is less affected by the cold than everyone else.

Living, even temporarily, in tents (as close as they are to Winterfell) was no laughing matter. Men could easily drift off in their tents, and when night came and the temperature dropped, no one would be the wiser till the morning when they tried to rouse their friends, finding them stiff limbed and cold, taken by the stranger in their sleep.

The girls falls silent behind her, obediently following as Sansa makes her way through the rows of tents, pausing every now and then to speak to a watchman or guard or weary soldier who stamps his feet in the cold. The girls take note of all who need new furs or boots and cloaks that need mending. The soldiers seem wary of speaking to her at first, all addressing her haltingly as ‘My Lady’ to which she smiles back and asks them if they need anything else they only have to ask.

More than one set of cheeks turn ruddy afterwards, and it is not from the cold.

Sansa is surprised it takes so long for someone to alert the King to her wanderings, and so when she sees Brienne stiffen, she knows he has arrived.

She turns toward him with a polite smile. Let him underestimate her as they did at King’s Landing - that she is simply a pretty girl whose head is filled with air.

“Your Grace.” She says, “Good morning.”

“What are you doing, Lady Stark?” He says, without politeness, without pleasantries.

Sansa feels Brienne shift behind her and sees the King’s eyes flick up to her sworn shield, the tiniest flicker of surprise there. Brienne had been hidden the day before and had not met the King.

“I am seeing to the needs of your men. They have fought bravely at The Wall and I do think they deserve the comfort I can offer while here at Winterfell.” He has no time to formulate an answer to her reply either as she smiles again and begins to make her way back through the camp, walking past the King, heading for the castle.

“If the Princess is up, I do believe I promised her a tour…”

*****

King Stannis watches from a few paces behind as his daughter and Lady Sansa traverse the grounds of Winterfell. He is there for protection, and observation. It also helps that he can better oversee the work his men are assisting with in the rebuilding of Winterfell and make sure to direct them as he follows his daughter about. The guards he has assigned his daughter, and his own, walk beside and behind them, all watchful and ready though seeming relaxed. He notices more than once their eyes trail to the hulking figure of Brienne of Tarth - Lady Sansa’s sworn shield. How the woman came to be sworn to Sansa Stark is something he intends on finding out. Stannis adds it to the list. Lady Sansa’s motivations, her loyalties, why Brienne of Tarth is in her service…

He thinks on the task he has set Davos and knows that it will solve at least one or two of his questions, the rest however, he needs to figure out himself.

His daughter had been upset, and concealed it well, at the departure of his Lord Hand but now in the company of Lady Sansa who seems content to tell Shireen Northern Histories and answer her numerous questions, she seems very much at ease. His daughter is far too trusting, naive, and yet he would not have her any other way - for when she loses that innocence, it would mean she had been harmed and that he had not been there to protect her from it.

He can see it though, from the light in her eyes and the smile on her face, Shireen is enchanted, and, he thinks, how can she be otherwise when someone gives their undivided attention to her? It is rare his daughter has had that - and by a woman. He knows Selyse has had difficulties, her guilt and bitterness at not being able to give him a son especially, has stiffened her relationship with their daughter. His wife was never a warm woman, prone to days of isolation and critical thinking, never one to openly show affection or admiration, rather like Stannis himself…

As he looks at Shireen, clearly enjoying the attention and knowledge given by the other woman, Stannis can’t help but wonder whether he has harmed his daughter by his aloofness. It’s not in his own nature to be affectionate but perhaps he could have been a bit more--

Lady Sansa says something quiet he does not catch and his daughter giggles, delightedly and puts a hand over her mouth, attempting to stifle the sound.

Their own interactions have never been so easy, and he thinks bitterly on the days lost to them.

*****

For Sansa the tour goes well, as does the rest of the day. The Princess is a delight, of course. Inquisitive, gentle and kind. Sansa hasn’t been alone with her yet - wise of The King and perhaps a touch amusing because as she observes him, he does the same for her, trying to look for her motives.

It gets dark all too soon and Sansa guides the Princess (and the King who follows them) inside to warm up. They have a meal together before she makes her excuses and leaves them to entertain themselves. No doubt The King has much to sort out and Shireen can find her way back to the library with her guards.

Sansa manages to meet with her advisors, sort further supplies for the King’s Men and get in some training with Brienne who seems eager for her to learn the way of the sword and bow more than ever. Shooting in the dark is a challenge but it is a challenge Sansa finds she needs as lines become blurry in the dark and must train her hearing as well as her eyes to seek out assailants. She even does a few exercises with a bow and arrow, Brienne lining up targets for her to shoot at, and sometimes even running with a target marked shield for Sansa to hit. At first she was dreadfully worried about hitting Brienne by accident but her Sworn Shield had said that if she was hit it would be her own fault for not moving quick enough. The increased pace of her training, and seeing that Brienne’s reluctance to teach her gone, Sansa realises it is because of Stannis’ presence here. Her sworn shield still uncomfortable with the fact that he walks about Winterfell with no punishment for killing his brother, and yet, still worrying that he will turn on her too.

It is highly unlikely that any harm should come to her, surrounded by those loyal to her, and then there are her wolves.

Ice has been out hunting today with the pack, she can feel her presence at the back of her mind. Where once she was only able to see through the wolf’s eyes in dreams or when she was feeling a particularly strong emotion (the day of her wedding comes to mind), now it is a tingle, one that only grows stronger with each passing day and she can draw on this to summon or see her wolf. Sansa heads back to the castle, it must be nearing dinner by now as the sun has set and full dark wraps itself around Winterfell.

“Lady Sansa.”

Sansa blinks, startled though she tries not to show it. She smiles a quick, polite smile and nods. The Red woman stands before her, seemingly appearing out of thin air, her eyes seeming far too intense for a simple meeting in the courtyard.

“Lady Melisandre I presume? How can I help you?”

She tilts her head to the side and Sansa wonders what she’s thinking.

“I have seen you in the flames, My Lady.” She says, her voice is low and accented, surely a deadly tool for persuasion.

“Have you?” Sansa pretends that it is a simple thing that she has no understanding of and that it does not send a terrible chill shooting down her spine. She can only imagine what types of things she sees.

“I have.” She purrs. “I also know that you have yet to bend the knee to His Grace. He is Azor Ahai reborn, the Lord of Light’s Chosen, and should you deny him and his purpose and continue on this path I see destruction in your future. Flames surround you, My Lady, and so much death.” Her eyes are bright as though speaking of such awful things delights her.

“I have no intention of denying His Grace anything he needs.” Sansa replies smoothly. Melisandre’s eyes narrow and Sansa feigns worry, looking as innocent as she can so she will think her naive though Sansa wonders whether her tone may have been just a tad suggestive? Is it only because she has heard that the Red Woman and King Stannis have been intimate that she needs to test it? She needs to know his influences - Ser Davos mainly, but she hasn’t seen him around at all today…

“And is there no way to deviate from this path? The words you speak are worrying, My Lady.”

“A sacrifice. Traitors and unbelievers. Should you give their lives to The Lord of Light he may be merciful and spare your life…the flames reach so high, Lady Sansa.” she purrs.

Sansa’s reaction is lacklustre compared with what the Red Woman so clearly wants. She wants terror, another mind to guide and twist and force into her practice. Though she had tried to appear innocent and airy headed before, the woman’s attempted fear mongering is something that shortens Sansa’s patience like nothing else. Joffrey had done it. Ramsay had done it. Myranda had done it. She would be afraid no longer, and if she was, those who tried would gain her ire.

“Ah, I’m afraid we’re all out of traitors.” Sansa says sadly, making no comment on the fact she had said ‘unbelievers’ too, “You should have been here just a few nights past, there was a magnificent bonfire then. I’m sure you would have enjoyed it. Those who remain are all fiercely loyal and would never betray me.” Sansa takes a small piece of satisfaction in the way the skin around Melisandre’s eyes seems to tighten in anger. “Forgive me for cutting our meeting short, My Lady but I have other duties to attend to. Perhaps I will see you at dinner? And the Queen, I have yet to meet Her Grace.”

Melisandre smiles though it never reaches her eyes and it’s too full of teeth to be anything but a warning. Sansa knows that the woman dislikes her already. “The Queen and I will be having dinner in our chambers tonight, the ride here has tired her greatly and I must look in the fires.”

“Of course, you all did remarkably making it here so quickly. You must give The Queen my wishes for a return to full health soon.”

“I will…but take care, My Lady, for the night is dark and full of terrors…” Melisandre ducks her head and sweeps away without waiting for a dismissal. Sansa turns her head to watch her leave, the red silks she wears would be more suited for Dorne than here, and as they swish across the snow she leaves nothing but footprints behind her, a soft curl of steam rising once after every step she takes. Sansa wonders when the Red Woman leaves her line of sight whether she will turn into a cloud of smoke and appear elsewhere or rather just evaporate like Sansa wishes she would.

The beginnings of a headache prick the backs of her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been on a writing frenzy in the past couple of days and so In Need, Home Sweet Home and now By My Hand have all been updated! :D Hope you like the updates and are having a good week so far!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is this? An update? *faints*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long wait! Writers Block is a real thing no matter what anyone else says...

In her days amongst the baking hot alleys and steaming streets of Bravos, she observed everything. Each was filled with people, with life and laughter, with thieves and tricksters and plays…with screams and tears and remorse and vengeance and death.

She was death.

She was also covered in bruises. 

Whenever she returned to the House of Black and White she was often met with a whoosh of air as a staff was thrown her way and then several sharp blows to her arms and legs. Sometimes she wouldn’t last a minute, others, she lasted longer, but she never scored a hit on her opponent. More recently however, this time she finally managed to hold her own. At least for a little while. 

Sometimes, when all her limbs ached and she was more black and blue than pale skin, she was tempted to be someone else - truly someone else. Someone who had existed before she became A Girl and before the idea of No One. 

She wished to be a wild little girl who loved her brothers and teased her sister; to ride and laugh and play at swords. To simply languish in the feeling of freedom and vengeance and justice, without having to be told who to kill and who to leave alone. But of course she couldn’t.

Broken and scattered. Lost amongst lions and roses and…dead. They were nothing to her now. She was calm and controlled, obedient and following the rules laid before her. She said she was no one, felt nothing and thought of nothing but the task ahead. 

She didn’t have a headless father or a slate grey mother with a rattling voice that only spoke in gasps and growls. 

She did not have a brother with a wolf for a head. 

She didn’t have a bird for a sister, trapped in a gilded cage. 

She didn’t have a brother at the Wall, nor two others, burnt and hung like smoked meat. 

She was A Girl. 

She was No One.

The exertion from sparring and the tasks they gave her was something she didn’t enjoy exactly, but found it necessary to truly becoming a Faceless Man. She had found that if she didn’t exhaust herself to the point of collapse she would dream she was a wolf, and that was something only Arya Stark had done.

Sometimes the surroundings were familiar, though sometimes they were not. It could have been a figment of her imagination but the world was far too detailed to be anything but real. She half expected to wake up and physically _be_ in Westeros as Arya Stark, but when she checked her reflection in puddles and streams expecting something long and thin and horsey, she saw the same glowing eyes and blood stained muzzle of Nymeria. 

It seemed impossible, that from miles upon miles away in Bravos that this was really happening—that her dreams delivered her straight into the cold arms of Westeros with  a new pack all of her own. 

In the beginning she had tried hard to put the dreams away, to control them, but it was impossible to fight it, and little by little A Girl felt her will to leave them behind disintegrate.

It was only at night, when she was inside Nymeria’s head, that she referred to herself as Arya. Not Arry, or any other name she might have had before, but her first name given to her by Eddard and Catelyn Stark. It was probably what had stopped her from becoming a cold husk of a girl and sinking straight into the treatments and lifestyle of the Faceless Men.

Arya ran, played and slept alongside the wolves, savoured the tang of blood in her mouth from hunting and howled loudly enough that all who heard them felt fearful. The safety and belonging she felt in her pack was a delight after being alone for so long; it was almost as good as feeling skin and muscle and veins tear beneath her teeth, their screams like music to her ears…

The Freys who sieged Riverrun were not dropping dead out of politeness.

*****

Arya found herself surprised to see Winterfell on the horizon when she woke the next night, fur stiff from cold and paws frozen from the thick snow that lay on the ground. But she couldn’t complain, because it was wonderful, and for a split second she was _home_.

She had recognised that the pack had been moving North for months now, but she hadn’t quite realised there was a set destination in mind.

_Last I remember, the Boltons had taken the North and Bran and Rickon…_

A surge of anger so powerful coursed through her that she bared her teeth in a snarl and the fur on the back of her neck bristled. Her anger transferred quickly to the rest of the pack and soon they too were snapping and snarling.

Perhaps it was more than wandering paws that had set her on the course for Wintefell. She had dug out the stomachs of Freys with her claws and torn out their throats with her teeth. Boltons might be more of a challenge but Arya knew each and every crevice of Winterfell and how to get in and out without being seen. The pack could take as much as twenty in a close fight before fleeing…

They at the House of Black and White would not know that it had been she who had given Bolton men with the gift of death. What if visiting Winterfell and seeing the changes made by the Boltons was what she needed to let go of her past and become a true faceless assassin? Though surely the Many Faced God would welcome a few more faces into his halls. It was their time to join him. 

They were shadows against the ground, moving quickly toward Winterfell. It looked like home, but it wasn’t, she knew, despite the familiarity in the scent of the place. She even thought she might have recognised a few scents but…they must have been faint echoes of what had once been. 

It was clear that the Boltons were pathetic at keeping Winterfell a safe place, or perhaps the guards cared as little for their lord as she did. At points she was sure her pack had been seen, several times in fact, but not once had an alarm been raised or sent soldiers running.

_Idiots_.

They passed through unseen and slunk into the Godswood, no doubt the Boltons dared not step foot here. Two wolves would stay on the fringes of the Godswood while the others would charge through and take out as many bolton men as they could, Lord Bolton and his bastard would be drawn to see the disturbance and that was when she would strike—

So focused on her revenge Arya had failed to listen to her senses and see the familiar Weirwood, nor the figure between its roots. 

Then the woman looked up.

*****

Sansa had taken to visiting the Godswood at ungodly hours to sit between the thick twisting roots of the pale Weirwood and quietly speak her thoughts and concerns. It felt like her family was with her then, and when she spoke she felt a little less alone. Sansa had made sure to present a well put together front during the day when she was observed but it was when she was alone that she felt it. Her siblings, parents, all gone, and what few loyal men and women Sansa had scavenged and persuaded all her own. Jon Snow was now Lord Commander at the Wall and would not be relieved of his duty there. She could visit perhaps, when times were calmer.

Sansa thought of her parents and how they would have reacted to King Stannis and his proposal to bend the knee. “I wish you were here. You would have known what to say.” Sansa whispered, her breath misting in the freezing air. Her clothes were stiff about her and even though she was wearing her warmest furs she had been sitting outside for so long that what little heat she managed to make seeped out through the gaps. Remaining still for so long in the cold was rarely a good idea.

Her main concern, as it always seemed to be, was the King. One moment he was almost, dare she say it…cordial, and the next minute he was cold and seemed to be on the verge of an angry outburst! It also seemed to depend on whether the Red Woman or  Queen Selyse was in attendance, both women Sansa decided she didn’t like much at all and she was well aware the feeling was mutual. 

Winterfell’s inhabitants would wake in four hours to begin the day, but she could stay out here a while longer. Poor Brienne had insisted she come along to all of Sansa’s late night wanderings though she had given her some privacy, remaining within shouting distance. None would harm her here, especially with the pack a thought away.

It couldn’t have been long after that Sansa felt a presence nearby. A wolf. She looked up to find she was right though it puzzled her when it didn’t come bounding over, butting its head against her hand or begging for a scratch behind an ear. Perhaps it was a new wolf, come to join her pack? There had been several new additions since she had settled, clearly word had spread through the wild until the numbers swelled the pack enough to be called a small army. 

Sansa heard the scrabbling of paws on the frozen ground as more wolves, clearly having followed behind, ran quickly away. Only one wolf stayed.

“You’re not one of mine.” Sansa said softly. Her voice was almost a coo, gentle, like speaking to a young child and not some dangerous animal that could tear out her throat in the blink of an eye. “Are you hungry? Hurt? Lonely?”

The wolf seemed to take an involuntary step closer and gave out a pitiful whine that made Sansa press a hand to her breast as though to muffle the ache she felt there. She knew loneliness too…but this wolf had been with others. They would have been welcome if they had not run away. Perhaps if she got this wolf to trust her, then they would follow?

Sansa realised as she watched, sitting still and trying to give off a calm presence, that this wolf was much bigger than many others of her pack. In fact, as a chill breeze brought its scent to her Sansa realised that there was something almost familiar about this one…

The soft smile she had worn dropped slowly from her face and the wolf froze, eyes wide as Sansa sucked in a painful breath.

Her voice wavered as she spoke, unable to stop her hand from reaching out toward the wolf before her. “Nymeria?”

As though speaking its name brought Nymeria from the frozen state it held itself, she snapped at Sansa’s hand and growled in warning. It wasn’t out of malice, the eyes were far too wide and almost _fearful_ for that to be true.

Sansa pushed herself into a crouched position between the Weirwood roots, uncaring of how she might look or sound if Brienne came to check on her. “Nymeria, it’s me, Sansa. Don’t you remember?” She took a slow step forward and a twig snapped beneath her boot.

Nymeria shuffled back on shaky limbs, its previously confident steps now suddenly unsure of the terrain. The fur on her back was raised and it bristled as she intended to flee. Perhaps she knew that Sansa’s lie had been the reason Nymeria had been sent away.

But she wouldn’t be sent away again. Sansa desperately didn’t want her to leave. Nymeria could be the last _real_ link to her family, and it would be wonderful to have her here in Winterfell with her—

“Wait!” Sansa called, pushing herself up to stand as Nymeria turned and prepared to run—

_The cheers of a crowd. Pain. So much pain._ **_No room_ ** _. Scalding pebbles and burning sun—the taste of blood in her mouth as she tears out throats of Freys—Riverrun—_ **_there’s no room_ ** _—freedom—a strange hall filled with cold, slate grey faces. Hiding a familiar sword beneath rocks—Jon Snow smiling, calling her little sister—_ **_there’s no room! It hurts!_ **

A voice in her head.

_Loud. Shouting. Screaming at her to_ **_GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT_ ** _—_

The voice, so familiar, hits her like a physical punch and she hits her head as she falls back into the Weirwood tree with a force that leaves her breathless. The ground rocks beneath her as she blinks slowly, and finds the Direwolf pushing itself to its feet, and hurrying, as fast as its shaky legs will carry it, away from her.

The thoughts and memories had been too vivid to belong to any animal whose reliance was usually on baser instincts and desires. The truth was obvious. The wolf was not a wolf at all.

“Arya” she croaks, her head throbs painfully and her throat feels raw and sore. The wolf picks up speed. “Arya, come back…don’t leave me—”

Nymeria…Arya leaves the way she had come and Sansa is alone in the Godswood once more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell Arya's a confused lil murderer in this chapter? Do you want to see more of Warg!Arya? 
> 
> Thank you all for being so patient! More Stannis in the next chapter and things'll start moving along a bit more snappily I hope!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hark! An update!

“I have tried to work him out, but from what I have seen he is so utterly selfish I cannot…”

Stannis hung back, unsure whether she had heard his approach, or whether she would continue speaking. 

Brienne of Tarth had given him a stony, sullen look when he had approached though had given him leave to pass, as she did every other time he wished to speak to Lady Sansa — as per her orders.

“Everything he does is for _himself_ and I cannot believe it will be good for the North.”

Stannis couldn’t have kept the anger from his face if he’d tried. He was not doing this for himself. In fact, there was nothing further from the truth. Did she think he _wanted_ to be King of this mess? Did she think he wished to play The Game and put Shireen in danger from unscrupulous social climbers who would only seek to further their own situation? Lady Sansa’s attitude towards himself, speaking when she thought no one was listening, rang true with every other opinion that wasn’t from his men. Even when he tried to save the realm from its inevitable doom - the White Walkers _were_ coming - he received no thanks, only opposition and reluctant allegiance. They would all have been begging to join Robert or Renly. Robert had been popular but incredibly irresponsible, and Renly…he had been no better. Both had been wholly unsuitable to be King, but he…it was his duty.  A memory of the words Renly spoke when they had gone to treat sounded in his ears. 

_No one wants you for their King, Stannis._

He ignored them through gritted teeth and payed attention to the here and now instead. 

There was only silence, and no one replied to Lady Sansa’s words. Perhaps the person she spoke to had already disappeared to relate their Queen’s views to the resistance? Selyse and Melisandre had warned him that as she had not yet bent the knee, she seemed reluctant to relinquish her power. 

 _She will bend the knee,_ he had told them when they appeared unhappy at turning down their advice, _I have a plan_. 

But perhaps they had been right. 

It was only Lady Sansa’s next words that made him reconsider approaching her then. He had been quite ready to defend himself and make it quite clear that she _would_ support his endeavours beyond the wall and for the Throne or—

“He killed our father you know…”

Stannis frowned, though this time it was with confusion rather than anger. Though he may have resented Ned Stark for monopolising Roberts time and affections, he had respected the man, and certainly never killed him. He had been at Dragonstone at the time too. 

As he continued to listen he realised with a prickling heat at the back of his neck that she wasn’t speaking of him at all. Plans of confronting her and ordering her to kneel before him dissolved quickly.

“…then he pushed her. I can still hear her scream sometimes.” 

It was clear the man she spoke of wasn’t him, he had never raised his hand to a woman in his life, and so decided to make himself known to her rather than skulking about listening to the girl pour out her pain to her silent audience.

He stepped a little heavier as he approached so she would not startle and asked outright, “Who are you speaking to?”

Lady Sansa rolled her head against the bark of the Weirwood in a lazy move and watched as he approached, an odd smile on her lips. 

“Oh, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Stannis looked out into the woods and saw no one but the back end of a large wolf loping away. Perhaps it was not a conspirator then, though it had been said her wolves were far smarter than they had any right to be. Twenty wolves (from what he had seen) could do quite a bit of damage. 

He turned back to her and wondered why she looked so amused. 

“I was speaking to my family.”

He could not contain the huff that escaped him though he couldn’t find it in himself to regret it. Religion made fools of the smartest of men — and though he didn’t hold gods himself, he was using it to aid his cause. Any trick was highly valued, and the Lady Melisandre’s magic _worked._ Which was more than could be said for the rest of them. The seven hadn’t helped when his parents ship was torn to splinters and driftwood in Shipbreaker Bay.

“Think what you will but being here brings me comfort. Before we left Winterfell, my father often came here to think, it’s a peaceful spot and good for reflection. I can see no reason why I should deny myself this in order to try and impress those who do not hold the Gods in their hearts.” Lady Sansa pushed herself up from the roots of the Weirwood and brushed off the snow that clung to her cloak. Her cheeks were pink from the cold and her blue eyes were alert despite the late hour. “The Godswood is a fine place for reflection and to think of those who are gone from this world…though I doubt that is why you are here tonight.”

Did she think he would join her in prayer? He almost laughed aloud which would certainly not go down well.

He gave her a terse nod. “I did not come to reminisce about the dead.”

“I know. Still, it is a fine place to exorcize your demons, and speaking of which, I assume you are here to make sure the correspondence I received this evening did not contain a plot to harm to your person?”

She spoke with such confident impertinence that he had never heard before in a woman of her breeding. Stannis remained silent.

Lady Sansa reached into a small pocket at the side of her dress and pulled out a well handled piece of parchment. “Here, if you would like to read it.” Her smile was terribly annoying.

He took it without hesitation and unrolled it. Upon reading the first few lines, which had been lightly smudged from curious fingers, he thought his eyes had played a trick on him. It read like a love letter. Though surely it couldn’t be…Lady Sansa had made it quite clear that she had no suitors, nor wished to be married.

Surely he hadn’t come outside to interrogate Lady Stark on recieving some fool’s sentimental rubbish?

He looked up. “What is this?” he said accusingly. 

Lady Sansa seemed far too pleased with herself. “Do you not understand it?” she asked pleasantly, “well, see here—“ she moved three surefooted steps until she stood beside him, his arm pressing lightly against her as she leant over to run her gloved finger over the parchment. 

It was a wonder she didn’t turn an ankle, moving across the icy tree roots. 

“It’s in code you understand, just in case the raven was intercepted. Now the Bolton’s have been dealt with and the allegiances of the North settled there is very little chance of that.”

Stannis moved the parchment away from her pointed finger and turned so they were facing one another. She practically radiated heat and her presence at his side made him dreadfully uncomfortable. 

He had to let her know that he would not be swayed from his task. He would not be persuaded — not even if the stupid rumour that Lady Sansa was trying to seduce him was actually true. She had made no moves to do so that he could see.

“ _Nothing_ has been settled.” He told her. “You have yet to bend the knee.”

He saw her breath curl in the air as she sighed. “Must we speak of this again?” 

“Must you be so impertinent?” he snapped.

She looked at him as a mother would an unruly child. 

“I have _said,_ Your Grace, that you have my allegiance and my respect. I shall bend the knee at the proper time and not before.”

“The proper time would have been when we first met. I had marched to Winterfell to free you—“

“And while it was appreciated, it was not needed. I am capable, though it is surprising how many seem to forget this.”

“Did I say I doubted you?” Stannis grew annoyed at her tone. “When shall this proper time be, may I ask?” the parchment crumpled beneath his fingers and he saw her eyes dart down to it in annoyance. “Will it be once you have grown tired of denying me my rights? Or will it be once you have all your pieces in place to stage a coup? The Iron Throne has tempted many, for all it is a burden.”

From the icy look on her face he had a feeling that he had overstepped somehow, but surely she must know that he would not be content to sit and be played like a simpleton. How else was he supposed to take the notion that she wished to remain Queen? For the realm to survive the Winter, and recover, it would need to be united.

Lady Sansa’s voice was hard as she spoke next. “I have no desire to be Queen of Westeros, and though this may be hard for you, you must trust me.” 

He thought he had covered his sneer but some of it must have shown on his face for Lady Sansa’s face remained a cool, distant mask that was usually reserved for difficult petitioners who were particularly idiotic. 

“The North is my home just as the South is yours. As you assisted the Nights Watch and continue to do so through sending for Dragon Glass, all at your own expense, I will do all I can to aid you. I am feeding your army as we speak, Your Grace.”

He tired of verbal battles with Lady Stark, if only she would do as she was told _,_ things would be much easier. 

“If you _truly_ wish to aid me you will tell me your plans. If you wish to know my own, you will comply with my wishes and allow us to work together. If you do not allow me this there will be serious problems between us.” 

“Then I will not be spoken to like a child who is not intelligent enough to understand.” Her lips pursed and her chin tilted up in a stubborn way. 

Their words hung in the air between them for several long seconds before he gave a terse nod and unclenched his fist to reveal the crumpled letter. 

“Now,” she said, a little more warmth in her voice but still cool toward him. “As I said before the letter is coded. This section here—” she ran her finger along the lines of finely written script, some words now distorted from his harsh treatment, and translated them as she went. _To my heart, I ride with great haste to you. All in my company are eager to see you and wish to know you better. I most of all wish to hear your voice and share all that I have learnt from my travels. I have a great gift to make up for my absence and hope you receive it in the manner it deserves. I have thought of nothing but you and hope that when next we meet you will greet me as I need. Yours Always.”_

Lady Sansa read the words in a brisk manner as she translated. “This part means that they are headed for Winterfell and ‘ _all in my company_ ’ intend to pledge themselves to me if they haven’t already done so. I am unsure about the gift part, perhaps a new dress or some fripperies he thinks I may like, though of course it could be tied in with the greeting part - which I believe means he intends to marry me.” 

Several questions bombard him, but most of all Stannis wonders how she got all that from a letter.

“And you know this man?” he asked, she had come to stand beside him and was again far too close. “Those he travels with - who are they? Do you know their numbers?”

“Even though he hasn’t signed it, I would know his handwriting anywhere. It’s from Petyr Baelish. As he was married to my Aunt, he has become an uncle to my cousin Robyn who is Heir. As my cousin is not yet of age, Lord Baelish is now Lord Protector of the Vale.”

Upon hearing the name Stannis’ eyes narrowed instantly with dislike. “And you would trust this man, marry him even?” He supposed his anger was at the idea of Littlefinger acquiring more power than was his due — which also led to the idea that Lady Sansa would be wasted on a man like him.

“Only a fool would trust Petyr Baelish and I have learnt my lesson.” Sansa shook her head.  “As for marriage, I have made my stance clear on the subject before, yet just between us, believe me when I say nothing could induce me into matrimony with Petyr Baelish.” 

It seemed the death of her Aunt had affected her quite strongly. 

“Until I know what he wants and what he has done I cannot make any assumptions. I will find out, and then I will plan, and then he will pay.” She stood tall then and with the moonlight glinting off the spiked crown resting atop her fiery hair he almost felt reluctant at the idea she would set it aside.

He was not accustomed to comforting others and so his words came out a little stilted, but he hoped she took them in the manner they were intended. “I have not said it before but you have my sympathies on the death of your Aunt.”

Lady Sansa looked at him sharply, an assessing look in her eyes made him still. “You heard me then.”

Ah. Stannis felt the back of his neck prickle with heat, he hadn’t meant to admit such a thing, and yet before he could reason that he had heard it elsewhere, his silence was evidence to his guilt. She did not rail at him for listening to what could have been private moments between herself and her gods, nor did she seem overly upset, simply cool, calm, collected. In fact, it seemed she had been made of ice and snow, forever calm and still, with little outbursts of strong emotion. He supposed it was a good thing though he wondered what it would look like. How would it feel to be the cause of her joy or recipient of her gratitude?

“He saved me.” The sudden admission surprised and confused him. He had fully expected they would speak of something else. “My Aunt had tried to push me through the Moon Door, believing that I had seduced Lord Baelish with the intent to turn him against her. She was delusional. Petyr rushed in and pulled me back. He then took my Aunt by her arms and declared that he had only loved one woman in his life — Cat. My mother. The horror on her face was…” she took a deep breath. “Then he pushed her, and of course you know the rest. Her death was blamed on a singer and he was put to death.” She stared out into the trees yet seemed to see none of them. “My mother was a great beauty…everyone says I remind them of her.”

Stannis was terribly uncomfortable. Was he meant to agree with her? What could she possibly mean with a statement like that? He realised he hadn’t said much in all the while she explained. If she had uncovered the meaning from such a simple letter what did she think of him? Did she think him a simpleton? Someone as selfish as Lord Baelish who cared little for the concerns of others? Davos would have told him to make a good impression upon Lady Sansa - she was, at this moment, his greatest ally…and biggest threat.

“Lord Baelish will face justice for your Aunts death when he arrives, I will make sure of it.”

Her hand found his arm and patted it gently, her demeanour much warmer now, and certainly it was as though her hand a brand that burnt straight through his close to leave a mark upon his skin where she had touched him. “You are very kind, Your Grace, but my Aunt’s death is not the only thing he must answer for.”

The crunch of snow and snap of twigs beneath a heavy step alerted them to the presence of Brienne. Stannis stepped back to put some distance between them, and tried not to look annoyed at the interruption. He was just about to ask about the man’s other crimes though the death of a Lady would have been enough to separate his head from his shoulders.

“I will retire now, I think.” Lady Sansa nodded to him, “sleep well, Your Grace. Shall we meet in the morning to discuss this further?”

Stannis nodded in agreement, but made no move to follow as Lady Sansa and her Sworn Shield made their way inside. She had given him a great deal to think about, and he knew he would not be able to sleep for a while longer, so instead, he began to prepare for the arrival of Lord Baelish and the Knights of the Vale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stannis isn't quite sure how to respond to Sansa, as impertinent as she is ;) Hope you liked it!  
> Remember when I said I'd planned things out for the next few chapters? Yeah, well by few I mean the next 10 and though I have an idea of where I want this fic to end, I imagine it's going to be a tad longer than that before I get to it!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After 6 rewrites of this chapter it's now about half the length it was before. I had thought about cutting it in two but having waited this long you're all saints and deserve it!

After their conversation in the Godswood Lady Stark had become much more competent. He would grudgingly admit that perhaps he had underestimated her at first and had not given her the respect she deserved, though the increase in communication had improved understanding greatly. Lady Sansa had informed him of her plan to bend the knee once the men of the Vale had pledged themselves to her. Thus their allegiance would also be to him and they could not withdraw their support without looking like cowards. Their forces would swell into something that could be used to defeat The Others if they were smart about it. Should they succeed, they would turn their eyes to the Iron Throne and his ravaged kingdom.

_“You understand that if I fall you will continue to support House Baratheon and seat my daughter on the Iron Throne.” He watched her face for any sign of hesitation._

_“And does Shireen know her part in this?”_

_“She is my heir and knows her duty.”_

_Lady Stark looked at him for a long minute before nodding._

_“I will do as you ask, but you mustn’t think like that.” She told him. “Think that we will win. Think that you will live. Believe it and it might just come true.” She sniffed delicately when he scoffed at her faniful speech._

_“In any case if you fall that would mean I have failed…and I do not take to failure well.” Her tone brightened a little and he became wary of that teasing look in her eye. “That and you can almost tolerate me now. I would dislike it greatly if I had to find another friend who possesses your same dry wit.”_

_Stannis had been a little startled but nodded, feeling a touch of what could be called optimism — if he were another man._

*****

Sansa lay in bed pondering her guests in Winterfell. The rigid attitudes of some and the stubborn rumours that refused to die made her almost bite through her tongue to hold in a stinging retort. She was certainly not power hungry, a liar or wanton! 

_“Doubt it happened at all. Load of shit if you ask me.”_

_“Well it’s nothin’ special. Wolves are just dogs at the end of the day and anything can be brought to heel with a bit of training.”_

_“Wouldn’t mind showing her a trick or two“ There was the sound of laughter “Do you reckon her cunt’s as red as her hair or…”_

It was regrettable that a Lady had to be composed and gentile at all times when hosting such impolite guests — if she were a man she could have duelled them for her honour.

Aside from a few bawdy soldiers, Queen Selyse and Lady Melisandre had made it perfectly clear that they disliked her a great deal. Both were determined to get a reaction with their harsh words and insinuations that she was less than pure and a liar to boot. 

It was most almost amusing how either Queen Selyse or Lady Melisandre would appear whenever she and the King were to discuss matters of importance, apparently convinced that she would attempt to seduce him if left alone for a moment. It was rather ironic considering the rumours surrounding Lady Melisandre and The King. 

Sansa’s maids had reported several instances where Lady Melisandre had stormed from the King’s company in ill temper when their discussion didn’t go her way. A little vindictive perhaps, but the thought cheered her immensely. 

It was an unfortunate side-effect however, that when a Queen or Priestess made it clear she disliked you, their subjects and followers would follow suit. Ice had broken up more than one fight between Northmen and Florent Queensguard over a harsh word. A snarl and threatening snap of teeth was more than enough to send them springing back from one another.

Sansa might have tried the seduction just to spite them but other than the fact that she would have no idea how to seduce such a man, she lacked the desire and will to do so. 

It certainly wouldn’t be fair to the King she tried it.

Sansa had done little more than practice her smiles and shy looks in the Vale. Flattery had come easily enough to her though she rather doubted Stannis Baratheon would be swayed by such acts. Imagining herself pressed up against him and fluttering her eyelashes made her smother laughter into her pillow. She could see his reaction now—he would scowl down at her, completely oblivious to her intentions, and ask if she had something in her eye. It would be with such a serious tone that any mood she tried to create would be utterly ruined if she had to explain. Which she would because why else would she be blinking so rapidly if she didn’t have something in her eye?

Sansa had actually made quite good progress with The King. In fact, it was no longer a necessity to seek him out and force him to like her because if she was honest with herself, Sansa was becoming quite fond of the man, surly moods and all. If she was right, he didn’t dislike her quite so much as before, she could settle for his mild annoyance.  

It would not be long before Sansa could have a talk with him about the Shadow, though she would have to catch him in a good mood— she gave an unladylike snort at the thought, quickly covered by her hand. She shouldn’t laugh really, but the man never smiled — even at his daughter. She almost wondered what would warrant such a reaction from him? 

Rather glad that her maids were in bed and the door too thick for Brienne to hear her, Sansa calmed her amusement and settled down again, allowing her mind to wander. An almost sure way to fall asleep these days when a lot weighed upon her mind, was to find her wolf, who seemed to increasingly seek out the subject of her thoughts. Perhaps she was unknowingly pushing thoughts of them through the bond?

_In the blink of an eye Sansa was Ice._

She had become very good at being ‘present’ in her own body, yet seeing through Ice. She could flip between the two in a second and still be aware of what the other was doing. It was a more concentrated effort with the other wolves, but she could still do it. The bond between her and Ice had grown in leaps and bounds and though she still felt Lady’s loss with a painful ache, Ice was not lesser in her eyes.

_Darkness. Leaves. Traces of Pack…heading forward and back and crossing one another…_

Stannis was beside her, seeming much more comfortable than he had been at first. It seemed he had finally accepted her advice to exercise his demons in the Godswood through walking though she had yet to hear him speak of Robert or Renly aloud. He’d said something about Proudwing before—

_Wing….birds have wings…quick, far too quick…fun to chase and snap and bite!_

—Though she’d not known what he had meant by it. 

_Heat…hot springs…damp, wet, would die in the cold, not safe, no fur at all._

It had been a while since she had bathed in the Hot Springs. Perhaps she should do so again soon. She steered Stannis toward their usual route, a slight path worn away in the dirt from where countless others had travelled, lost in their thoughts or looking for guidance from the old Gods.

_This way…no this way…you’d break a paw in there._

The King would cast his eyes down at her every now and then but overall he didn’t seem to mind her presence, or the fact she was leading him about. So lost in his thoughts she was glad at least one of them was more knowledgable about the paths they walked. Walking about the wood with a comfortable silence between them (though her wolf could only howl and bark and snap) was as she had said — very relaxing.

They walked for a long time in silence until the rhythmic pad of paws made her tired and the connection between she and Ice flickered.

Sansa was just about to pull back, feeling sleepy and finally ready to retire properly when, to her great surprise and startling pleasure, Stannis reached out and buried his hand in the fur at the scruff of her neck. 

_Nice…good…scratch harder…_

Ice gave a satisfied rumble which was echoed by Sansa as Stannis scratched at her neck with strong fingers and blunt nails. 

It seemed like the most natural thing in the world to tilt her head into his hand and lean against his leg, never mind the fact that Ice was now the size of a small pony and was probably shedding all over his cloak. 

_Where are you going…more…much better…_

The King tried to resume their walk but she stepped forward in front of him so he could move no further. She heard him sigh before he reached out again, both hands this time, and scratched around her neck and down her back, blunt nails dragging through the fur in such a way that she felt her back leg begin to kick out. No wonder Ice enjoyed it so much — it felt so good, like scratching an itch that had been bothering her for days! Perhaps she should find a way to subtly say thank you to The King for being so kind to her wolf? He really was very good with his hands— _oh just a little lower—there!_

“My Queen?”

Brienne’s voice snapped her back to her own body with the swiftness of plunging into icy water. She bolted upright in bed and found herself shaking, though not from the cold. 

Brienne’s voice came again at the door, sounding worried. “Your Grace? Are you well?” The handle started to turn and Sansa knew she definitely didn’t want Brienne to see her in such a state—she was sure her face was rather flushed—

“Yes,“ her voice was high and nervous which did not help at all. “I’m very well, Brienne!”

Her voice was muffled through the door, but insistent nonetheless. “You sounded as though you were in pain, Your Grace. Should I fetch the Maester?” Bless Brienne for being so thoughtful but there was really no need for a Maester!

“Don’t worry—it was just a dream—thank you!” She hoped that Brienne didn’t decide that she needed to come in anyway and check on her. 

Pulling the furs up and over her head she called a loud goodnight and lay tense until she was sure that her Sworn Shield wouldn’t come in. 

Eventually Sansa relaxed enough to peek out from beneath the furs but felt terribly embarrassed about the whole thing. Usually when shifting into Ice she had no noticeable reactions as they certainly would have called her out on it for acting strange. Which begged the question, what on earth had she sounded like to make Brienne so worried? 

Ice did like having his neck and back scratched but she had no idea it felt like that — and to have The King of all people doing that it just—Sansa’s eyes went wide in the darkness. 

Old Gods and New, how would she be able to face him now? 

*****

Stannis rolled and sealed the parchment. It was a ridiculous waste, though he had no patience for the woman today so it would be quicker than making the visit himself. There was much to be done. 

“Take this to the Queen.” 

The servant took the parchment, but as Stannis turned back to the desk he did not hear the young man exit. 

Stannis looked over his shoulder to find the servant hovering nervously with the note in hand. “What is it?”

“W-which Queen, Your Grace?” he coughed nervously and his face turned pale at the sight of the King’s ill temper. 

“Which Queen?” Stannis snapped, feeling a slight satisfaction at seeing the young man flinch. It was his own fault for asking such a stupid question. “I am the _King_ , which stands to reason that the only Queen in this castle, is my _wife!”_ the young man jerked at Stannis’ harsh tone and bowed repeatedly as he felt backwards for the door with a shaking hand, apologising as he shuffled out of the room.

Stannis glared at the door for a good minute after that before attempting to return to his work. 

_Which Queen indeed. Stupid boy._

And now he was back to thinking of her — _again_. 

With a sigh he realised he would get no work done here. Picking up the only note of real importance, which he tucked into his pocket, Stannis rose from his desk and left his rooms, intending to walk the warm hallways of Winterfell and find somewhere peaceful. 

He settled on a rarely used hall with a window looking southward. It was a little cooler by the window than the rest of the castle and thick flakes settled on the sill creating a glistening layer of snow. 

He pondered on Lady Stark’s recent change in behaviour—serious and smart one moment and chattering and flushed the next. He had asked her whether she was in need of a Maester but had shook her head so hard she almost dislodged her crown and her cheeks almost seemed to glow when he insisted. If she had been anyone else he would have taken their word for it. 

_Prevention is better than trying to find a cure,_ Stannis reasoned to himself, and if she was truly ill then he did not wish to risk it passing onto others in the castle or the men down in the camp. _The last thing we need is a spreading sickness_.

His concern for Lady Stark made him consider the idea that he might have been bewitched…but no, that was completely absurd and they were ridiculous rumours. Lady Stark did not dabble in ‘dark magic’ he was certain. If there was any mind control going on it was over his own soldiers whose slack jaws almost reached the floor when she smiled at them.

He should think of something else. _Anything_ else — nothing came to mind other than the talks he was to have with Lady Stark over resettling the Gift with Wildlings and provisions to be sent when they came through the Wall.

Shireen — that was a safe topic. She had been telling him about a book she’d read on Northern folklore and how some could look through the eyes of animals. She had told him how Lady Stark believed it to be—

Stannis’ jaw clenched tightly as he ground his teeth together. It seemed it was impossible to think of anything else. 

Footsteps sounded just down the hall and the air suddenly felt much warmer around him, a whisper of fabric alerted him to her presence. Only Melisandre still managed to walk about in silks.

“My King,” she said lowly when she approached, standing just to his left, yet close enough that he felt the heat coming off her in waves. It was the magic she wielded he was sure. He remembered when she promised him—

_Finger shaped bruises and peeling skin, heat and passion…_

He could not forget it, even if he tried.

“My lady,” he said grimly. It seemed he would get no peace tonight. “What do you need?”

“I have come to give you counsel.” 

Stannis nodded. Advice was always welcome though whether he took it or not was up to him. He motioned for her to continue.

“The storms around Winterfell and the North have been increasing in strength. The Others have caused the Wildlings to move south, we must assume the two are connected.” 

Stannis knew this and so did she. They had been over it a thousand times though it was rather difficult to believe. The Northern Lords had seemed reluctant at first in putting stock by a fairytale though their belief, in the end, had rested on him. Would he, a man who was known to have ill humour, corroborate on such a trick if it was not true? His own reputation, his _word_ , was at stake. Not even to mention the consequences to the realm should the Wall fall and the White Walkers get through uncontested.

When he said nothing Melisandre stepped closer and tilted her head so she could better see his face. “It may get worse.” She prompted.

“I fully expect it to.” Stannis replied, looking out into the grounds. 

As if to confirm Melisandre’s story, the snow thickened and took that moment to come down all the faster.

She stepped closer and the temperature rose until he was uncomfortably warm. “I would advise you to make an offering to the Lord of Light. He will lessen the storm and strengthen you. As the Lord of Light’s Chosen—“

He was beginning to think less and less of this ‘Chosen’ business. Surely, if the Lord of Light favoured him then he would have the favour whether he made sacrifices or not? Stannis found it difficult to unclench his jaw enough to speak. “There will be no burnings. It is part of the agreement with Lady Stark.” 

“My King! Please!” Looking horrified she pressed herself against his arm and the heat of her skin burned through his layers and made him itch. “Surely you must see that the girl wishes you harm? With the Knights of the Vale on their way to pledge their support to her, she cannot have any intention of handing over power!” her hands felt like claws digging into his arm. “Has she tempted you—“

Stannis pushed her away perhaps with more force than he intended. Had she thought that after he had succumbed to her temptation that he would be reduced to Robert’s level? To be so enthralled by flash of skin that he would throw everything away to get at it? He had dishonoured his wife once, for a son, but even that had turned to mist and smoke and left him with a feeling that something was missing. Other than the presence of his brother at his side being irritating and so carefree it boiled his blood. “The old gods cannot protect or support you as the Lord of Light can. A single sacrifice would turn this snow to steam and His fire would consume their pale trees with ease—“

“There will be no sacrifices within the walls of Winterfell, nor any burnings of the Lady’s sacred trees. I have promised this in exchange for supplies, support and hospitality—“

“Which all should have been given freely!” Melisandre said, furious.

He’d had enough of this. Stannis whipped around to stare into her face. Her eyes were dark with anger and the ruby at the base of her neck grew brighter, seeming to pulse like a little heart. He felt angered that they would not trust his judgement on this. “Lady Stark has yet to suggest restricting your movements about the castle or your meetings for prayer. It is not a religious or spiritual war we face here, it is a real one — the threat we face from the Others should not be overlooked for petty bickering and turning on one another.”

“She dishonours your wife by keeping her titles! And you! Someone might even think you have turned your true wife aside for that Northern—“

Stannis felt his face twist in a snarl, “ _Do not_ finish that sentence, do you hear me? Never say anything of the sort in my hearing again—or anywhere else, do you understand?” 

“She is unfit!” Melisandre seemed taken aback by his vehemence. 

Stannis noticed she had not agreed. “And yet she has remained polite and calm in the face of such vile rumours which I can see you have had a hand in! Lady Sansa is the innocent party and if you continue to defame her character, steps will be taken. You will pass this message onto my _wife_.” Stannis turned back to look out the window, reigning in his temper though it still burned bright and hot in his gut. They should know he was not one to make empty threats. “In any case she will bend the knee.”

“But—“ It seemed Melisandre still had the gall to argue.

“I am your King, now leave me. I have no wish to hear you speak further.” Stannis snapped and Melisandre took an unsteady step back. Clearly she had underestimated how harshly he would take her criticism of Lady Stark. If she turned them out, declaring war, or simply heard this conversation and decided enough was enough, he wasn’t fool enough to think that they would still be alive by morning. 

_Except_ …he doesn’t think she would harm Shireen. It is oddly comforting, in a grim sort of way. Lady Stark seems very fond of his daughter.

He says nothing as Melisandre leaves, and does not turn to look at her when he feels her sharp gaze on his back. Stannis knows when she is gone because the heat recedes and the corridor returns to a more comfortable level. 

The plan is very close to completion and he cannot afford the slightest upset now, not when Lady Stark’s fealty is all but secured. 

From his pocket he pulls a small note, delivered early yesterday morning by a tired raven, written in a poor hand. 

_We return with the glass._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reason this is so late is because I went back to the LONGLONGLONG hour summer job from last year to save money for uni. I also have a hell of a lot of uni work so updates will be as and when I can.  
> Thank you all so much for sticking with this fic and I -am- going to finish this!  
> Let me know what you thought in the comments, I've missed you guys!!!


	16. Chapter 16

The baby is a pink screeching thing, but Walda’s tired eyes glow when she looks upon the face of her son. He is tiny but well formed with a tuft of brown hair sticking up from the top of his head. All babies seem to look alike when they’re born: squished, unhappy faces covered in blood and such, crying loud enough to wake the dead. 

But it's a son. 

 _Not a Bolton_. She reminds herself. _A Rivers, like his mother_. _Sweet, guileless and deserving of a chance at life without being threatened or pushed or sneered at._ But Sansa can't help but look at the babe, even if his father hadn’t been Roose Bolton and think, _you're not safe_. While Winterfell is warm and they have food aplenty the threat of the Others beyond the Wall marching closer with every hour that ticks past reminds her that none of them are truly safe.  

Sansa finds herself imagining how she would feel, what she would _do_ , if it was her own babe, small and defenceless, facing such an uncertain future. 

 _We cannot loose_. She thinks, _or the world will fall to ruins and babes will be born and die and rise again in the cold. Their corpses--_

"Would you like to hold him, Your Grace?"

Walda's voice draws Sansa from her worries and returns her to the present. The cold blue eyes that Jon had described fade away.

Sansa politely declines, “That’s alright, you’ve waited quite a while to meet him after all.” She smiles softly, declining the chance to hold the pinched and mewling babe. She would not wish to deny Walda this joy, fighting sleep in order to stare in amazement at her baby. “Perhaps another time,” Sansa rises from her chair and begins to help clear up though her maids hurry about to try and finish the job before she can help. Once the room is clean and everything returned to order, the Maester giving out his last instructions, Sansa assigns Walda and her baby a maid to watch over them.

It seems a lifetime ago that Rickon was born and she was fetching things for her mother, or singing little Rickon to sleep. The same exhaustion in her mother’s face is present now in Walda’s, though how her mother still managed to run Winterfell and look after a newborn is beyond Sansa. 

“Is there anything else you need? More blankets? Something to eat or drink?” Sansa offers.

Walda’s eyes become teary and Sansa panics inwardly, calling for the Maester who is just washing his hands — Milk of the Poppy should do for the pain.

“I—I’m fine, thank you” Walda says in a choked voice, shaking her head at the Maester before she turns back to fix her eyes on Sansa, swimming with tears of gratitude. “ _Thank you.”_

Those two words hint at more than she ever could have said aloud.

_Thank you for letting me live. Thank you for letting me keep my son. Thank you for being so kind._

“You’re welcome.” Sansa smiles wearily, glad that everything is well with the new mother and baby, and, after only a small hesitation, leans over to gently smooth the tuft of brown hair on the baby’s head.  She promises to visit soon, leaves the two to bond and returns to her rooms to have a hot bath and some well deserved rest. 

*****

She really should be in her _own_ body, in her _own_ bed, sleeping deeply until morning called for her to rise and attend to her duties. They sometimes seemed never ending, especially as she was performing the duties of both Lord and Lady of Winterfell, there was very little time to actually partake in her own recreational activities. That and the additional pressure of being Queen and holding court to hear out petitioners and concerns from the Northern Lords there really weren’t enough hours in the day.

Sansa had followed Lady Melisandre on silent paws, glad that she was downwind so the horse wouldn’t spook at her scent, and cursing her curiosity and the need to make sure that everyone in Winterfell was safe. Seeing Lady Melisandre slip through the gates on horseback had sent all sorts of questions buzzing through her mind.

_Where is she going at this time of night?_

Lady Melisandre seems confident that she is not being followed because she doesn’t turn around once and manoeuvres the horse with ease across the frozen trail that leads to Wintertown. 

Curious, Sansa followed.

Wintertown is mostly sleeping, doors and windows locked tight, except for one large house, built in the outskirts whose lights are warm and inviting. Lady Melisandre trots easily up to the side of it where some rough looking stables lean up against the outer wall.

Sansa stills in the shadows as a stable door opens and in the light she can see a man. Tall, bearded and slim with a slight hollowness to his cheeks he looks at Lady Melisandre cautiously. He is much more warmly dressed than she and had it been anyone else they probably would have frozen to death by now. Lady Melisandre’s dress is no thicker than the ones Sansa had worn in King’s Landing. Her cloak conceals most of her red hair, but the rest seeps out of the hood to lay against her chest and be whipped about her shoulders by the wind.

“M’Lady?” the man says lowly and Sansa shuffles forward on her belly to get a better look as the man helps Lady Melisandre down from her horse. 

_What is she here for? Who is he?_

In the darkness it’s all too easy to see her pale hand emerge from the folds of her cloak to lay flat against his cloaked chest. Sansa can’t see her face, but she can see his, and his eyes grow hot as she presses herself against him.

 _Oh_.

Sansa snuck a quick look up at the bright lights of the building and wondering, with Ice’s heightened senses, how she hadn’t noticed the laughter and… _moans_ coming from the upper windows. It’s obvious what the building is now.

Sansa had never been to the brothel in Winter Town herself, though she is aware it had been a regular haunt of Theon and Robb when they were…when…

Sansa sighs to herself. 

Thinking on the past was only serving to make her melancholy even if it did include her brother and father’s ward frequenting a whorehouse. Her arrival at which left a feeling of guilt in her belly. Clearly Lady Melisandre had come here for a _reason_ and that reason did not warrant Sansa spying on her like some devious sprite.

Glad that it was nothing more nefarious than a midnight tumble to satisfy the Lady’s needs, which obviously were not being tended to by the _King_ , Sansa decided it was time to leave. Her warm bed back at Winterfell was calling her name and she needed to be well rested in the morning to hear petitions and meet with King Stannis.

Well aware of how the people of Winter Town might react to a wolf in their midst without her around… _chase it off…shoot it down…_ the thought sends a shiver down her spine and she shakes her fur to chase away the sudden chill. As she gets up, ready to slip away with Lady Melisandre and her lover none the wiser, her fur prickles and she realises she’s been caught.

It’s like time has come to a standstill. The man has stiffened and his hands grip Lady Melisandre’s upper arms as though he’s getting ready to push her behind him. She on the other hand is calm and composed, her eyes are fixed on hers with a startling intensity and sansa feels the guilt tense up into fear. While still in the shadow, one paw raised and ready to run, the couple stand in their frozen embrace.

 “Don’ move—“ the man says lowly, “I’ll get the fork.”

His eyes never waver from Sansa’s tense form as he reaches for the tool, leant up against the stable wall, but she can hear how his breaths have quickened and his heart tells her how terrified he really is. 

His fingers just brush the worn wood when Lady Melisandre stops him. He frowns, looking worriedly between his lover for the evening and the wolf in the shadows.

“We have nothing to fear.” She says, her voice is cool and calm, and her eyes do not waver. The man doesn’t look like he believes her but draws his hand back all the same. 

Sansa wonders how long he’s known Lady Melisandre to comply so readily to a threat, and she wants to leave but it’s unnerving how her eyes seem to glow brighter in the dark and she has a terrible feeling that she _knows._

Melisandre’s voice is little more than a coo. “You won’t hurt us…” she says softly, the man behind her looks nearly ready to shut himself in the stables when his lover takes two steps toward the beast. “…will you _Lady Stark?”_

_She knows. She knows. How does she know?_

At the back of her mind she can feel Ice warning her… _Not safe…Not safe…Danger…_ But Sansa already knows this too and tries to reassure her wolf to stop it from trying to take over and eliminate the threat. 

Ice snarls in the back of her mind.

_Need to leave…not safe…don’t let her know_

Sansa tilts her head to the side as a dog would before turning and loping away, apparently disinterested by the two humans standing ever-so-close to one another. It’s a different matter when she’s out of sight. As soon as she’s sure they can’t see her, she doesn’t stick around. Her paws scratch deep into the snow as she bolts through Winter Town’s streets, too quick for anyone to see her properly and heads for home.

The instant Brienne lets Ice back into her chambers, Sansa returns to her own body. Her wolf jumps up on the furs immediately and nuzzles close, growling lowly at her side and voicing his displeasure over the events of the evening. Sansa scratches him behind the ears at the ruff of his neck until he settles. A mix of embarrassment and worry at being caught swirls in her stomach and hopes that word of her talent doesn’t get back to Stannis. 

*****

“Odd that.” He huffs staring warily in the direction of the wolf. “Never seen a wolf like that one. Big bugger.”

“That’s because it’s a Direwolf.” Melisandre hums, still staring in the direction it had fled. “And it belongs to Lady Stark.”

“Well. Can’t complain about strange beasts roaming about, they got rid of the Bolton’s after all. Tore them to pieces or so the rumour goes.”

Melisandre hums in agreement and turns her attention back to the man in front of her giving him a long look. He’s not particularly handsome, but he’s useful, and that’s exactly what she needs. 

“Shall we take this inside?” he suggests, “Only I don’t want to freeze my bits off out here in the cold—I can’t imagine you’d like that much either, eh?”

She gives him a slow smile that has made men bend to her will time and time again. “Oh I wouldn’t worry about _that_ , the cold cannot harm me.” She purrs and feels his body tremble beneath her burning hands. They’ll go inside. Eventually. 

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

Sansa’s dreams had been full of shadows, likely brought on by the worry of how the North would react when they caught wind of her  _ talent _ . It could go well, Direwolves  _ were _ a symbol of her house, but in recent years their luck had been poor indeed.

Melisandre could make it out to be the result of some strange sorcery that would turn them all into beasts and give Sansa complete control — and why would they discount it? Who knew magic better than a witch? 

The tensions between the North and South would likely rise, Melisandre was very charismatic when she wanted to be and could persuade a few more over to believing Sansa was wrong to have the ear of the King.

Sansa felt it was likely the gift was passed down through the Stark line, or from another Northern family who had joined with the Starks centuries ago. Their Talent seemed to feature in many of the Northern Tales Shireen asked her to explain, handing over whatever book she’d been reading at the time. Sansa had not paid much attention to those stories in her younger years, and only now saw their significance. 

In one of the tales they were called Wargs, people with the ability to look through, and sometimes even shift into the form of the animal they had connected with. In the tale, a young maid called Freya was escaping a jealous Lord whom had been denied her hand. Upon reaching a forest she turned into a silver bird and darted up into the trees, away from the man who sought to harm her. Had she known their significance, she might have tried turning into bird to escape King's Landing. 

A few other tales described characters like the Children of the Forest and Giants, but there was one imparticular that Sansa found herself stuck on. It described a boy who, upon running away from home, befriended a wolf that allowed him to look through his eyes. She had read a few to Shireen who had complimented her tone and delivery, making Sansa smother a giggle. Whenever the Princess said something like that it always made her think of the King. They were rather alike in many things, though Shireen was quicker to smile, if the King did it at all.

“They called him The Young Wolf, didn’t they?” Shireen said softly one day as they were reading together.

She looked up from her own book, knowing instantly who the Princess was referring to. “They did,” Sansa said softly, the pain was still present, but it no longer paralysed her as it did when she’d first heard the news. She remembered how Robb and Greywind would race about, covered in mud with Arya and Rickon and their pups. Summer always stuck with Bran and lady had always been so well behaved…

Ice whined from beside her, looking up at her from his position on the floor as though to ask her why she was in pain. 

_ Pack _ , she thought,  _ killed _ .

Ice whined again and he stood so he could lay his head in her lap. Sansa patted his head, smoothing her fingers through his fur and scratching behind his ears. The pain receded to a soft ache as she felt him turn to nibble and lick her fingers. 

“Could he really turn into a wolf?” Shireen asked softly, looking between Sansa and Ice and noticing how they seemed to communicate without words. Her face was full of a building wonder, seemingly ready to accept the idea should Sansa’s answer be  _ yes _ . 

Had Robb been able to change into a wolf he might have lived a little longer but… 

“Not to my knowledge, Shireen.” Sansa answered, “but sometimes there can be a bond between a person and an animal. Some interpret it to be as though the two are linked through the mind, and perhaps, in dreams.” 

“I used to have dreams,” Shireen said softly. “But they were not nice at all.” Her lips pursed as her finger worried the frayed edge of the bookmark she held, almost swallowed up by the armchair Sansa had asked to be brought up to the library. The Princess wouldn’t be comfortable on a rickety stool for long, especially considering how long she spent in there.

“Oh?” Sansa prompted the girl, feeling just a tad startled. 

Was it possible that Shireen knew? Or did she…

“Dragons. I dreamt they were coming to eat me.” She whispered. “Maester Cressen said all the dragons were dead, and the stone ones we had at home could not come alive like they did in my dreams, but I heard that Danaerys Targaryen has  _ three _ and all of them can fly and breathe fire and—“

“Shireen.”

Both Sansa and Shireen jumped at the sudden voice, though Sansa masked hers by standing smoothly to her feet. In the opening of their reading nook, stood Queen Selyse and several members of her guard.

“Mother,” Shireen said, closing the book carefully and placing it on the table before hurrying over. Selyse’s presence in the library always signalled an end to the time Sansa and The Princess spent together. 

Queen Selyse frowned unhappily at her daughter, the bones of her cheeks becoming more prominent as she pressed her lips together. “You would be best not to confuse lies and fairytales with the truth. Stories are just that.” 

Sansa did not rise to the dig. 

“Men cannot turn into wolves and the only bond that should be present between a person and their animal is one of obedience. Anything further is…unnatural.” Selyse turned her sharp eyes onto Sansa who smiled politely through her clenched teeth and placed a hand on Ice’s head. He was one step away from growling.

_ Polite. You must be polite. _

“Is it time to go?” Shireen asked quietly sensing the tension in the room.

“Yes.” Queen Selyse said. “You’ve had enough reading for today, and now it is time to pray.” 

Though it was clear she did not want to, Selyse nodded stiffly in Sansa’s direction. It was far from the usual respect required when addressing a fellow Queen, or even a Lady, but Sansa let it slide. It must have galled her to have her own husband take her to task on her attitude toward Sansa. Thankfully, the resentful attitude Selyse held toward Sansa was not passed onto Shireen and though their time was limited, they were allowed to read together. For now. 

As Shireen followed her mother she looked back over her shoulder, gifting Sansa with a small smile. 

Sansa hoped she would see The Princess again soon.

*****

After exiting her rooms in her warmest clothes and casting Brienne an apologetic look, Sansa led the way to the Godswood. 

Sitting beneath the Weirwood gave her a sense of comfort and peace that was difficult to find elsewhere in Winterfell. Sometimes, when resting her head back against the bark she was sure she could hear whispering, soft and familiar. Yet, when Sansa thought she had finally caught the words, they drifted away on the wind, masked by the rustle of leaves above her.

_ Nothing. There is nothing there. You're just tired. _

A lot had happened in recent weeks, namely, the Queen’s decision to keep Shireen from Sansa’s influence after some truly bawdy rumours had begun circulating. From their content and the sharp looks sent her way, it would seem they had not been started by the Queen or Lady Melisandre. 

_ And thus they must be true _ , Sansa thought with grim amusement. 

Sansa had kept her sworn shield innocent to the rumours, she did not need another reason to dislike Stannis Baratheon, and believing that the man was dishonouring her Queen so thoroughly would have sent Brienne marching in to defend her. However, if even half the things her maids whispered to her were correct, then she would have been walking very oddly indeed. In fact, if they were true then she and the King would have been seen very little, having taken all their meals in her chambers! 

Sansa tried not to think of the rumours when they were in meetings together. They made her cheeks turn hot and she found herself frowning when she missed something for staring at the King’s hands. She had never realised how broad his shoulders were, it was only when he stood silhouetted against the window…

“Are you well, My Queen?” Brienne asked when she had stayed still and silent for too long. 

“I am.” Sansa nodded, noticing the way Brienne’s shoulders seemed to relax slightly in relief. Sansa knew she tended to get lost in her thoughts but that was only because she had quite a lot to think about. Brienne was wise to the dangers of the North and fearful that the cold would claim Sansa’s life if she stayed outside for too long. Every day was cold now, the nights lasting longer and longer with each passing day.

Sansa sighed and stood up from the roots of the Weirwood, patting down her cloak to shake any leaves that had attached themselves to the thick wool. “Let’s head inside, Brienne,” she said, pretending not to see the relief on her sworn shield’s face they began the long walk back to Sansa’s rooms.

The night was beautifully quiet and the silence between Sansa and Brienne comfortable. Unfortunately just as they exited the Godswood a crash and the sudden shriek of a woman made Sansa jump. Brienne stiffened beside her, drawing her sword a second later as an indistinguishable shout followed quickly after.  It seemed to come from the direction of the armoury which  _ should _ have been empty at this time of night.

Brienne seemed ready to force Sansa back into the Godswood where she could hide more successfully in the secret paths and groves, or even call on her wolves if someone sought to do her harm, but Sansa shook her head. She was in rather dire need of a hot bath and change of clothes before she met with the King in just a few hours — all in all, it was likely nothing and Brienne could surely handle it.

“Go” Sansa nudged Brienne forward. She recalled the guards were to be stationed in different locations tonight and so none would be watching the armoury. If there was trouble they would need a capable pair of hands. “It is probably nothing but it can’t hurt to check. I’ll call Ice and make my way back to the castle.”

Brienne looked at Sansa stubbornly. “My first priority is you, Your Grace.”

“And mine, as Queen, is making sure Winterfell is a safe place for everyone. I would not forgive myself if you did not take a look at least.” Sansa closed her eyes briefly and called for Ice. She felt the link spark with awareness and then prickle as he began to run back toward Winterfell. 

They hadn’t spoken outright about it, but Brienne was smart enough to guess there was more going on than ‘training’ with Sansa’s Direwolf. 

“Ice is on his way, when he arrives I’ll head inside with him.” She said, looking at Brienne’s worried face. “Now go…before I make that an order.” 

Though looking as though she’d been forced to eat a lemon, Brienne nodded sharply. “I’ll be right back.” She bowed and stalked toward the source of the noise muttering that she should have woken Podrick for their jaunt after all.

Sansa stood for a moment until Brienne was out of sight, shifting occasionally from foot to foot and attempting to keep the wind from nipping through the gaps in her cloak. Ordinarily, Ice would have been with her in a matter of moments but last night she had ordered him to hunt with the pack and burn off the nervous energy she had accidentally fed them over the last few weeks. Sometimes her emotions bled through the bond, and while it could be useful, with so much tension in Winterfell it had caused the pack to become rather dangerous to be around. It was sheer luck that they hadn’t bitten anyone. 

Ice was often on edge when they walked together, fur bristling and ready to snap at the slightest provocation. _ Tense…not safe…danger _ . He would urge her away whenever they came across the Queen’s Guard or the more devout followers of Rhollor, but Sansa was not stupid. She took pains to avoid Lady Melisandre and Queen Selyse, both of whom now knew of her ‘talent’ and seemed to think she had come by it dishonourably. Or from some foul and savage ritual they may have believed to be commonplace up in the North. 

When questioned, Sansa had neither confirmed nor denied that she could see through the eyes of Ice, but she didn’t need to. They suspected it, and they were right.

King Stannis had yet to mention it to her, but sometimes, she caught him staring at her with an odd look as they poured over reports, plans and strategies.  _ This will be the time. He’s going to ask me now. _ She would think. Yet, when she caught him looking, he would turn away, switching to the next topic that required their attention. He knew. He must…and yet he said nothing. 

It should not bother her, but it did. 

Sansa wished he would just come out and say it. The man was blunt in all other matters — why not this one? Should she tell him herself? A direct approach to The King was usually better.

When Brienne did not return immediately, Sansa thought it best not to wait around alone in the dark. She would be waiting a while yet for Ice, and it was terribly cold, so, hoping that the situation was nothing serious, Sansa left.

She was just passing the entrance to the Stark Crypts, her legs and fingers tingling with cold when she heard a voice speak suddenly from the shadows. 

“You are  _ false _ .”

Sansa bit down on her tongue to stifle her shout of surprise and tasted blood. She didn’t want Brienne rushing back for a bitten tongue — or to endure her sworn shield’s guilt for leaving Sansa alone to be surprised. She’d likely never get a moment alone again.

Fixing a politely inquiring look on her face, Sansa turned. “Out for an early morning stroll, My Lady?” she asked. She would not be riled so easily. There were very few who would make such a bold and disrespectful statement, and only one who spoke with such an accent. 

Lady Melisandre’s face held no expression that Sansa could decipher. “Perhaps.” Her eyes were intent upon her as she stood just inside the entrance to the Stark Crypts. Shadows clung to her silks like grasping hands and the ruby at her neck glowed like a strange red eye in the dark. It was so cold no one would willingly step outside for fear of frostbite -- yet here she was. Dressed in silks and a light summer cloak as though it was a spring day in the Capital. “Though I am surprised I am not alone. You have been keeping very odd hours as of late, Lady Sansa. May I ask what you have been doing?”

“Praying, My Lady,” Sansa answered as she walked toward the walled entrance. It was a logical explanation and much of Westeros knew her to be pious. It was difficult to throw suspicion onto one who was so devout as she. In King’s Landing, she had practically been a Silent Sister for the amount of time she had spent in the Sept. The Godswood had been an escape from watching eyes and grasping hands, and in moments she could almost trick herself into believing she was home. “It helps me prepare for the day.”

“Does it.” The woman said flatly. “Do not think us stupid that we cannot see your plan. The Queen has seen the way you tempt him to your Old Gods, following him into the trees and returning together after hours have passed.”

_ She means with Ice. And perhaps as me too though it has always been the King who has found me, not the other way around.  _

Sansa blinked innocently. “I’m afraid I don’t know who you refer to, My Lady.”

“The King!” she hissed, growing annoyed quickly. “He has a strong will but he is just a man and men are easily  _ tempted _ . You will remove yourself from temptation.” Sansa noted that the ruby at her throat grew brighter.  “He is not  _ yours _ .”

“Forgive me.” Sansa replied with pity, “it seems you are under the impression that you have authority over me, and that I care what you think. I feel I must tell you it is quite the opposite.”

_ Temptation _ . The thought was laughable. She was sure she vexed the King more than anything else. The idea of Stannis Baratheon lusting over her was almost as amusing as the rumours the soldiers shared. Apparently, they liked the idea of their King  _ ‘fucking her senseless’ _ . Her maids had blushed and stammered when she asked for the rumours word for word. 

They had not expected her to laugh.  _ “If I had done half of those things they suggested I would not be walking, let alone have any time for my duties, would I?” _

Spending days in bed with a skilled lover was not a thought for winter — not when she had so much else to think of and consider. Not that she thought the King a skilled lover. She wouldn’t know, nor did she want to think about it. It was wildly inappropriate.

“I find myself disappointed — your bark is far weaker than I thought.” Melisandre sighed.

Sansa smiled politely. “It is not my bark you must worry about, My Lady. Besides, I would have thought you would have other things to focus on, such as how you will return to the King’s favour? I suppose the rumours you spread about my attempts to seduce the King were an acceptable method to conceal your own lessened position, or, it could be that you have enjoyed his attentions in the past and are jealous?” Sansa would not advise this sort of conversation when one was alone without protection in the middle of the night, but she could not seem to stop herself. It was immensely satisfying to snipe back with no one around to hear, watch the play of emotions on Melisandre's face, and observe how her eyes darkened with anger. “With the King’s attention engaged so thoroughly by myself perhaps, you have noticed how he quite forgets you exist?”

It was the smile as she said it that seemed to rile the woman more.

“King Stannis is Azor Ahai, the Lord of Light's Chosen and he will see how you plan to displace him and take up with Petyr Baelish.” She ground out. “Or did you think the King had not told me? In your poor observations you have failed to see that I am still one of his closest advisors and he trusts me far more than he will  _ ever  _ trust you.” She turned and stepped deeper into the shadows, heading toward the entrance that held the stairs to enter the Stark Crypts. 

Sansa felt a sudden burst of anger. The crypts were not hers to visit, she was  _ not _ welcome there. 

Sansa followed, stepping quickly across the frozen ground to keep up.

“You are aware, My Lady that these are the Stark Crypts. You have no business here.” Sansa said tightly. “They are not welcoming to those who do not share their blood.”

_ Had she been down there already? Had she done something, cast something, on the stone statues that held the likeness of her family? On their…bones? _

Melisandre spun on her heel at the entrance and Sansa stopped to avoid bumping into her. They were so close now, practically face to face, but she had no intention of backing away. 

The moonlight was dim, darkening every time a pale cloud passed by, turning their skin a silvery grey.

“I  _ wonder"  _ she said, "if this is an attempt to keep your pathetic crown a little while longer? By resisting The King you have damned Westeros and everyone in it -- once the Others come all will perish in a neverending winter. I have seen it in the flames.” She looked at Sansa now with a pity that made her blood boil. “It is a shame you cling to your Gods and false titles. The Lord of Light would have accepted you, blessed by fire as you are.” Her hand rose to twirl a curl of Sansa’s red hair around her finger.

Sansa swept the lock away from her fingers and tucked it beneath her hood. “Any God who demands the sacrifices of the innocent — including those who think and speak differently — is no God but a  _ demon _ . The Lord of Light is one I could never  _ serve _ .” Sansa barely noticed the cold anymore, her anger had warmed her blood enough to send heat creeping along her neck. It seemed the heat only fuelled the words she had longed to say aloud after all these months, all polite facade gone in the face of her cold fury. “I have weathered your disrespect for long enough. When the King rises I will request that you be sent away from Winterfell. Back to Dragonstone. Or Asshai. I do not care as long as it is anywhere but the North.”

“The Queen—“

“The Queen is lucky I am not asking for your  _ head _ ,” Sansa growled. She felt the bond between Ice and herself become stronger, fuelled by her emotions. She felt him speed up further. He was close now.

Sansa waited for her response. One moment. Two. The seconds seemed to crawl by, waiting for the woman to lash out with her words, say one thing more that would give her cause to march straight to the King’s chambers and wake him and demand that he order her to leave  **now** .

_ Was she spoiling for a fight? _

It must have been the wolves, their own instincts feeding hers -- her hands had curled into tight fists at her sides, nails digging deep into the skin and all her muscles tense in preparation for  _ something _ .

“What a shame.” 

Lady Melisandre’s words were softer than they have any right to be and Sansa felt both stunned and angry all over again. 

_ A shame? Is that all she had to say? Was she not going to say anything further — or apologise, knowing she could not win? _

An unladylike scoff passed her lips and Sansa made to turn away. Except…something kept her in place. She could not lift her foot from the floor, turn her head or even twitch of her finger! It was almost as though she had been frozen in place. Almost like  _ magic _ .

“What a shame.” Lady Melisandre repeated. Her eyes seemed darker and the ruby at her throat pulsed like a living heart. The woman began to walk slowly around her as Sansa struggled against the invisible bonds, her anger rising further. 

“What have you done? Release me at once!” Sansa snarled her eyes like daggers. It was as though her limbs had turned to stone!

Melisandre offered her a look of sympathy. “ _ Poor _ Lady Stark.” She murmured. “After taking one of her usual walks she decided to visit her family crypts. In the dark, she lost her footing and fell down the frozen steps. Her cries too weak to be heard and the blow to the back of her head…fatal.” 

_ Ice! _ Sansa called desperately in her head, her chest turning cold with fear.  _ ICE! _

“Oh, I imagine some of them will weep at the thought,” Melisandre said softly, raising a burning hand to smooth over Sansa’s cheek. “But I won’t. And nor will the King.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:D


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update in less than a month? Not too shabby!

It was a long way down, it would be painful, and there was little chance of survival. 

Sansa felt a defiance stir within her as Melisandre placed her hands on her shoulders.

There was no pounding of feet or scrabbling paws. Just the night. Quiet. Dark. It was likely no one would find her until tomorrow morning, afternoon at the latest, and by then the cold would have taken her if the fall did not do so.

 _I will not die_ _like this._ She thought.

Without the ability to physically move, there was only one thing left she could use. Her mind. 

It was the way she directed the wolves. _Come here. Find Brienne. Go hunt._ Thinking _at_ her pack until they did what she asked, the connection growing with each day until they had recognised her as one of their own. Now it took very little effort, merely a gentle suggestion that her wolves do what she wished, but now, with Melisandre holding her against her will she paid no mind to the force of her thoughts seeking only to escape.

_She wanted to move. To go. To reach out her arms and…_

Sansa **shoved** _._

_Oh!_

For a brief moment, Sansa could see the surprised look on her own face, pale-cheeked and wide-eyed, before the world was swallowed by heat and darkness.

*****

It took her a moment to focus, the sensations were overwhelming and like nothing, she had ever felt before. Inside the mind of Ice, she felt the power of muscle, bone and pumping blood but never, _ever_ , anything like this. 

Power. Not that of responsibility and fealty, but a physical, pulsing, swirling power flowing through her veins and pressing against her skin. It was hot. So— _so_ hot. Prickling along her skin, burning her palms, filling her chest and flowing down her legs. Travelling up, up, up her neck and gathering behind her eyes until they throbbed in time with the beat of her heart. 

She could do anything. Be anything. _Kill_ anything.

Sansa forced her eyes to focus and looked around, realising with some relief that she could move in this strange place.

The space around her was vast and dark, and she knew it would have been cold if not for the way heat had sunk into every pore and swam beneath her skin. Shadows were everywhere, some thick and oozing while others hung like curtains from invisible rails. 

Figures emerged from the shadows, formed of dull wisps of grey smoke and silvery shining threads, some brighter than others. They bowed and knelt and huddled in pain, in ecstasy, seeking love, affection and warmth. The more she looked the more she noticed and details began to form — their age, the lines around their eyes and what they wore.

Screams, loud and distant sounded suddenly, startling her. 

A hundred voices crying out in pain and pleasure, for comfort and revenge. Yet the words were twisted, spoken in a dozen different languages and garbled together so no one voice could be distinguished from another. 

Then came the whispers. 

They floated past her ears, breath, hot and cool and heavy at the back of her neck. Again, too low or layered for her to make out any one word. 

Sansa rubbed at her neck, stepping forward hesitantly through the shadowed plane and toward a figure who was bent over in prayer. Then others who clutched their chest, their stomach, their knees, rocking back and forth. She passed more and more, bodies contorted, faces twisted in all manner of expressions, managing to catch bits and pieces of Common amongst the rest as she walked. 

_Help!_

_I just—_

_I’m sorry._

_Forgive me._

_Don’t!_

_Please._

_MOTHER!_

_There’s no—_

_Oh, it’s—_

A hundred different voices. Faces. All speaking, begging, pleading for _something_ and yet…the voices cut off so suddenly it made her ears ring with their absence. 

A sense of horror suffused Sansa’s entire body, freezing her in place as the feeling of being watched caused all the hairs on her body to stand on end. 

The figures scattered, no matter their pose or position, their faces terrified as the shadows around them began to twist and writhe. Silver hands rose up, reaching out as though…

As though…

Sansa knew what fear looked like. She had felt it often enough, seen it often enough, to know that they were afraid.

_LEAVE!_

_HIDE!_

_NOT SAFE!_

The voices whipped past her heated ears, warning, desperate. A few pale hands reached out to drag her away but they passed straight through her limbs like ghosts. 

 _Were they?_ She thought, desperately trying to see each terrified face as she passed them. _Were they ghosts?_

Her eyes locked with those of a young man and Sansa couldn’t help but wonder at the sense of familiarity. 

His face. 

The shape of his eyes. 

There was something about him but she couldn’t grasp it in time, and couldn’t call out that she knew him or his name, before he too fled. Others tried to grasp her as they passed her but Sansa now stood as immovable as she had in the waking world.

 _“You have to run!”_ One silvery figure told her, one of the few that was truly bright. Though standing in front of her, their voice seemed to whisper directly into her ear. “ _We have to get away from it — leave before it gets you!”_ It could have been a trick in this strange place, but something told Sansa that they were telling the truth. Intelligence, knowledge and emotion. They spoke with such surety too, and in more languages than Sansa could have learnt in a lifetime. She couldn’t shake the feeling that these figures were not just shadows and spun light. She felt, _knew_ , in her soul that they were people. 

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut tight and _shoved_.

_She wanted to leave. To breathe. To feel the cold bite of Winter…No animal’s head had ever looked like this. Fear sank into her bones. This place too unnatural and the heat so uncomfortable, she wanted to go back to her own body, to go HOME but…_

Sansa remained in the hot dark place where the shadows swirled and silver figures fled like birds before a storm until she was utterly alone.  

Melisandre had not been one of the silver figures, and Sansa could not hear her voice in the back of her head as she did when connected with Ice. 

_What had happened?_

_What had she done?_

_Where was this strange place?_

_What was_ **_that?_ **

The shadows writhed in front of her, boiling like an angry wave which crested high and never fell. It shuddered, shook and then…Sansa’s heart stuttered as a single eye pressed through the shadows at its peak, large, smooth like glass, and so very _red_.

It blinked once, twice, and then hundreds of long shuddering arms with clawed hands shot from the dark mass like bolts of lightning. 

She tried to move, to dodge, but there were so many grasping hands that she could not avoid them all, feeling the claws of one rake down her left cheek leaving a prickling burning pain behind. 

Sansa gasped and thrashed as they wound around her legs and waist, the heat was immense and suffocating and the shadows burned through her clothes as they wound around her, tighter and tighter. The shadows snaked around her chest, squeezing until she could scarcely breathe. Pushing and pulling and wriggling did no good, she could not break free.

A hundred different whispers that she had no chance of understanding, cried out to her, becoming louder and louder.

Glowing at the edges and larger than her head, the eye shot toward her until it was just feet away from her face. Sansa could see how thin veins pulsed and when it blinked, reptilian like, the shadows beneath split like a wound to reveal rows and rows of sharp teeth, around which glittered soft silver threads and grey smoke.  

The whispers turned to shouts and Sansa screamed.

“HELP! LET ME GO! BRIENNE! ICE! HELP—“

Two long fingered hands wrapped around her neck and _squeezed_ , choking off the rest of her words. She choked, gasping for air as she clawed at the hands, and skin that doesn’t feel like _skin_ which was hot and peeled away in chunks like slow-cooked meat. Her nails scratched and scraped at the bone beneath but it was tougher than steel and reformed just as quick as she could get it off, burning her fingers with the sheer heat the thing gives off.

The claws around her throat tighten in a bruising grip and white spots prick her vision as Sansa gasps desperately for air. A mighty pressure — pushing from all around — assaults her senses. Her eyes ached and her jaw hung open. The air smelled like smoke and fire. She coughed and spluttered, her face turning red and then blue as the last of her air disappeared. 

Sansa could do nothing more than jerk about like a hung man, knowing she would die.

She had heard that when someone died their whole life would flash before their eyes. People and places and memories. Happy and Sad. Quick. And yet it would settle their mind before death took them.

Yet it didn’t happen to her. 

All she could see was the red eye, feel the hands at her throat, smell the smoke and fire and hear…she could hear…

 _Wolves_. 

The distant sound of howling echoed through her body and her mind, growing stronger with each passing second. The howling shakes the very foundations of this strange place and the grip of the shadow loosened just enough to allow her a single gasp of air.

_Fight it. Fight it._

The voices are pinpricks of blessed cold.

_Fight. Fight. Fight._

Then, there’s light.

Hands and paws, teeth and claws. Faces and muzzles and limbs formed of white, silver and grey burst into her vision and reach for the shadows surrounding her, driving it back with an angry hiss. Some are invisible, faded, all shades and tones up to those that shine as bright as stars. Men and women, old and young, handsome and worn, they press against the heat and boiling shadows until it screeches a terrible note, trying to move away, shaking and shuddering beneath their hands.

Yet while the grip of the thing… _the_ _demon_ is looser, it won’t let go. 

Her face is red and eyes are swimming, feeling ready to pass out any moment, but then she thinks she sees…but it can’t be! 

_Fight it. Don’t give in!_

The voices, comprehensible and not, surround her. Filling her up with light and cool air they speak as though they are all beside her, talking into her ears.

_Fight. Fight. Fight._

With the last of her strength, Sansa pushes. Not with her hands, which are still burning as they pull at the smoking wrists of the creature, but with her mind. She thinks of her wolves and Winterfell. The people who depend on her. She thinks of King Stannis and Princess Shireen and Arya and Jon who would never know—

A terrible wail fills the air and Sansa was thrown from the shadowy realm into the sweet cold darkness of night.

*****

Air filled Sansa’s lungs in sharp painful breaths as her vision danced with tears and black spots. She gasped like a fish out of water, hands clawing the frozen ground as she breathes, relieved and terrified and far too hot as she spots the frozen bricks that announce the entrance to the Stark Crypts. 

What little snow was beneath her has melted into a muddy slush, soaking through her cloak and into the layers beneath. Her throat aches with a terrible pain and she can still feel the fear, sharp in her bones and each of the tiny hairs along her spine, stuck on the end.

_Can’t stay here. Must leave. Move._

Ice has found her, along with a portion of the pack he has been hunting with. They pad restlessly around her, sniffing the air and growling low in their throats. Ice nuzzles her face and pushes at her side.

_Up._

Her arms are weak and her hands sting and burn when she presses them into the ground to heave herself up. She hisses when she manages to sit on her heels and look at them. In the moonlight, she can see the skin is red and blistering. They’re shaking too. She’s shaking.

_Away from here. Not safe._

Ice goes down on his belly and allows her to use him to stand on her shaking legs. It’s hard and she feels so weak, but she’s glad he’s here. She would never have made it back to the castle on her own. She would never have made it out of _there_ on her own. Sansa shudders at the thought.

From the corner of her eye, she sees something move. She turns, slipping on the slush beneath her feet — hoping that the _demon_ that just attacked her has not come back for a second go and…

It’s not a demon.

Sansa sees Melisandre sprawled out on the floor, gasping and weak as an infant. Her fingers struggling to dig into the dirt as she tries to pull herself away from her. 

The pack growls with menace, surrounding Sansa and forming a barrier between the two women.

“Witch” Melisandre hisses into the freezing air, her breath misting and fading. She forces her head to the side, ignoring the wolves and looks straight into Sansa's eyes, her hand moving limply to grasp at the Ruby at her neck. 

The gem is cracked and dim. 

“Witch!” She spits again, and even in the low light from the cloudy moon, Sansa can see something darker shimmering on her lips.

 _Too slow_.

Ice pushes Sansa away from the Red Woman who curses at her when she turns her back and she can feel the rest of the pack following, guarding her. Sansa can’t hear much through the buzzing that’s building in her ears and she’s too busy watching her feet and gripping onto Ice for dear life to concentrate on anything else.

She feels as weak as a kitten and in quite a bit of pain that it’s making her clumsy. She knows from the way the cold air stings her face that she’s bleeding. Three deep slashes along her left cheek to her jawline. There’s little chance that it won’t scar. 

Questions fill her head alongside the buzzing till she can scarcely concentrate on where they’re going.

_How long had she been laying there?_

_Had that truly been Melisandre’s mind?_

_Those people…_

Sansa swallowed painfully and blinked her sore eyes to try and relieve the pain, feeling as though she’d sat too close to the fire for too long. Amongst the buzzing, her ears ache at the memory of the demon’s wailing.

_Stop. Hide._

They hurry to the outer wall of the keep, and the rest of the wolves scatter into the shadows having heard voices. She can’t be seen like this. Ice feels her desire to stay hidden and guides her to where they can blend into the darkness. 

 _Not safe. Return to den_.

She should use the secret passages to get to her room. Then call a Maester — no. She couldn’t. The guards and maids gossiped like old fishwives, and no matter what, some rumour would spring up in place, likely getting to The King before she was ready to see him and explain—

Sansa stops.

What if Melisandre got there first? 

Although weaker and slow without wolves to help support her she might still have some magic that would put her in front of the King’s door before she could beat her there. Or have soldiers waiting. Perhaps this was planned…

_To Stannis. Ice. Help me._

Ice growls his agreement and Sansa clings to his thick fur as she stumbles into the castle, desperate not to be seen and hoping that the blood from her face doesn’t drip and leave a trail on the floor. 

The last thing she needed would be for everyone to worry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter went through so many revisions and took this long because I wanted to get it RIGHT. I'm hoping the rest of the story will let me write it a little faster now I've passed the tricky bit!

**Author's Note:**

> After the clusterfuck that was season 5 episode 6 from Game of Thrones I decided to put this up here.  
> Find me on tumblr at kissmybaratheonass :)  
> Feel free to chat with me in the comments!


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